


When The Game Ends

by grungerofgotham



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: (but not yet) - Freeform, AU- they both hunt books, Alternate Universe, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bookhunter Michael, Boys In Love, Enemies to Lovers, Falling In Love, Fighting, Gradual Romance, Implied/Referenced Abuse, M/M, MAG 48 reference, Misunderstandings, Rivalry, Sexual Content, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, but do they??, emotionally and physically abusive parenting, its gonna be another long one, they hate each other..., you get some parent issues and YOU get some parent issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-03
Updated: 2020-05-18
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:40:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 50,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23983204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grungerofgotham/pseuds/grungerofgotham
Summary: A wealthy recluse dies in his countryside manor. An auction spreads 7 of the deadliest Leitners ever owned across the globe. Two book-hunters pack their shit for the holiday of a lifetime. Who will win the most dangerous game?Or: that’s right it's an enemies to lovers AU babey
Relationships: Gerard Keay/Michael Shelley
Comments: 147
Kudos: 189





	1. BOOK 0

**Author's Note:**

> Oh you came here for some fluff? Some of my usual soft flavor? NO. This tag is sorely lacking in enemies to lovers and I won’t stand for it.  
> Michael may be a sweet boy but if you can read, he will fuck you up  
> For real though, this one’s going to have quite a bit of violence in it, so if you can’t stand to see the boys fight, maybe come back to this another time :)

**LONDON, England**

Michael is drinking on a vacant rooftop when his phone rings. It’s late, and very dark. He hasn’t checked the time in hours. The only person who has his phone number is Phillip, and he would only call if it was an emergency. Still, it takes him a moment to pick up. 

It’s a clear night; no clouds. It’s heading into winter and the wind is beginning to bite with a deep cold. The numbing of his fingertips had faded from the forefront of Michael’s mind after the first bottle of red, and the drumming rhythm of duty had gone with it. Michael looks out across a blanket of grey, dark for miles until industrial brick becomes city glass, blinking bright and yellow. They’d drown out the stars if he wasn’t so far away. God, how he wishes he wasn’t so far away.

It’s rare to snatch a moment of peace between training and studying, so when an opportunity like this comes around, a free space in his cramped life, Michael takes it with both hands. He has a free day tomorrow, so he thought he’d spend tonight drinking and watching the stars and listening to the distant hum of cars in the city. Of course that would be cut short. Of course, he isn’t allowed to enjoy his first night off in literal months, he muses. Of course he’s living a life chosen for him, not by him, he thinks. Of course… Or maybe he’s just drunk. 

He looks between his second bottle of wine, half empty, and his phone. The tart sting of it had mellowed on his tongue the more he drank, and by now it’s going down smooth. He turns his head to the sky for a moment and tunes out the harsh ringing in favour of closing his eyes to the gentle wash of moonlight across his skin. What if he just let it go and dealt with the consequences tomorrow? Oh, and what consequences they would be. He accepts the call.

“H’llo?” Michael is audibly sloshed, and the burst of noise that greets him is wholly disagreeable.

Phillip’s voice is stern, disapproving, “I don’t know where in the hell you are, boy, but you better get down here within the next half hour. There’s been a development.” The tinny scatter of his voice in Michael’s drunk ears makes him cringe and pull the phone away.

“’Kay,” Michael says, and waits for Phillip to hang up before he sighs, scrubbing his hands down his face. He looks back up into the quiet sky and thinks about how tired he is for a long moment. It’s just the alcohol, he tells himself, just the alcohol draining his will to continue this farce he likes to call existence. 

Sitting the bottle down on the rough concrete, he walks to the edge of the roof. He scrambles up onto the stone wall, ears and cheeks red from the bitter wind, and tip toes along it. His arms are outstretched like an acrobat on a tightrope. Chin high in the air, he faces the stars and doesn’t look down.

He makes it a few stuttering feet before his impaired balance gets the better of him and he starts to tilt over the edge, long arms windmilling into the chasmic space below. The vision of city lights flows and wobbles in front of his eyes, and he smiles, broken and gleeful, before he grabs onto a nearby pillar and steadies himself, giggling with the cold brick rough against his cheek. Michael looks down along the edge of the building. There’s no people, no cars, on the street below. The pavement is still and grey beneath the orange puddles of streetlamps and Michael thinks for a moment what it would be like if he toppled over that edge right now. Thinks about how many people would miss him. Thinks about how small that number is.

He takes a moment to sober himself in the meandering wind of an autumn night in London. This is all a passing drunken fancy. He heads home.

*

“Where have you been?” Phillip says when he gets home, not looking at him, instead swirling whiskey around in a glass. He’s sitting in their small kitchen, silent but for the electric buzzing of the fridge. It’s clean in the way kitchens are when they haven’t been used in a day and there’s nothing on the table save for a bottle of scotch. 

Phillip looks older tonight, lines in his brow deep in the shitty light of the kitchen bulb, a lone mosquito dancing around it. He isn’t a drinker, but when he is, it’s not whiskey. Something’s definitely wrong.

“Just taking a walk. To clear my head,” Michael explains, trying his damnedest to stay steady on his feet. His shoes squeak loudly against the wood floor and they both wince as he clasps a hand nonchalantly on the back of the chair opposite Phillip and avoids the old man’s gaze. Phillip’s jaw clenches, and Michael sees that familiar vein pulsing quick and dangerous at his temple. It means that his lie is insufficient. 

Phillip Mordecai had adopted Michael when he was twelve years old and Michael had thought it was his lucky day. He didn’t stop thinking that the first time that Phillip’s temper was shown to rival that of the matrons at the Boys’ Home, and he still didn’t stop thinking that when Michael failed maths class for the first (and only) time and Phillip smacked him upside the head. Michael never stopped telling himself he was lucky, because finally, after being passed around in the system for 12 long years, there was someone in his life that he could call ‘Dad’. 

It was less than a month after the papers were signed that Phillip enrolled Michael in a few extracurricular classes, like Latin and Wrestling and Taekwondo. He pushed Michael to his limit in every way possible, and Michael excelled, because it was the only choice. Excel, or find a new family. That’s how it was before, why would it be any different with Phillip? So he trained, and learned, and fought against his desperate will to lie down and sleep until Phillip deemed him ready enough to start finding these fucking books.

Leitners. Michael had never heard the term before he came to live with Phillip. Then, two years in, it was his life, all he ever thought about. The way Phillip spoke about them with such visceral hatred filled Michael with a keen passion to rid them from the world, and he had done little else since. Lately, though… lately it’s been feeling like the more he frees the world from the terror these things bring, the more he traps himself into a life he never chose.

“Well, while you were busy _wasting your time_ ,” Phillip says, “Wallace Sawyer was busy dying.” He glares into the amber liquid and gestures to the other chair.

Michael fumbles into the seat, landing heavy and wincing as his head spins. Still he fronts that he’s not completely shit-faced, “Who’s he leaving all his stuff to?”

“The good thing is, most of the artefacts he collected are going to his daughter, staying in the family,” Phillip starts, taking a gulp of his whiskey. His tone says the good news doesn’t come close to outweighing the bad.

“Okay…?” he’s hardly ever seen Phillip with a beer. Michael starts to fidget as his anxiety bubbles up from wherever it had been hiding on that rooftop.

“And the Leitners are being auctioned off globally,” He finishes, taking the rest of the drink into his mouth in one swallow.

“Oh, _Christ_ ,” Michael says, horrified. “Whose idea was that?”

Phillip shakes his head tiredly and rubs a few stubby fingers across his brow, trying in vain to disperse his frown, “I don’t know, boy. But it’s a real problem. If we don’t get to those fucking books first, there’s no telling who will, and how much damage they could do.”

Michael can’t imagine. The amount of people with their finger on the pulse of Wallace Sawyer in his last few months was troubling, to say the least. Every low life in the supernatural underground gnashing at the bit for a taste of the power they thought would come from owning one of his seven legendary Leitners. And now they’ll be spread across the globe, almost no way of tracking them, aside from a grisly trail of bodies. If there’s any way to stop it, Michael isn’t going to wait around.

“Have they already been auctioned?” Michael asks.

Phillip nods, “The problem is, we don’t actually know how long he’s been dead, and how long the books have already been out there. But now that we know they’ve been released; time is of the essence.”

“Do we know who bought them? Where they’re keeping the books?” He leans forward and blinks into focus.

“We only know one. It seems like there’s one person who has all the intel, and is dropping one location at a time, drawing every interested party to one spot at once. That’s how Silesa made it sound anyway. No guarantee he isn’t actually the one with the information.”

“Christ, if we aren’t careful, each book could be a blood bath, Leitner or no Leitner,” Michael mumbles, much too drunk to be dealing with this kind of bombshell. He leans forward; time is lives at this point, “So where’s the first one?”

“Barcelona. I have the address written down, here,” he says, handing Michael a torn edge of paper.

Michael’s stomach twists as he looks at the scrawled address. He’s hunted Leitners before. And not to be cocky, but he’s _really_ good at it. But the most power-hungry and evil men and women in Europe are going to try to move heaven and Earth to get these books. This is the most dangerous thing Michael has ever done, or ever will do, probably, and there is a daunting chance that he may not come out of it alive. This is what he’s been training for. This is what he was made to do. Or so Phillip says. Michael sighs, at least Barcelona will be nicer than London this time of year.

He puts those churning insecurities aside. This is his time to shine. He’s going to save lives and destroy Leitners and make Phillip proud, or so help him God. If he can prevent the untimely death of just one person before these books take him out of the game for good, it will have been worth it. It will be worth it.

“Before you go, I should warn you…” Phillip starts, tapping the table to get Michael’s attention.

“Hm?” Michael looks up from his grim reverie and is met with a startlingly intense gaze.

“There’s going to be a lot of folks after these books. Bad folks,” he pokes his finger pointedly into the table a few times.

“Yeah, Dad, I could’ve told you that,” Michael says, head starting to throb as the alcohol in his veins metabolises.

“Don’t be smart with me. Now listen: There’s one man in particular I want you to watch out for. Back when I was your age, his mother was a friend of mine, until she betrayed me, and started to use the things we swore to destroy for her own gain. Mary Keay was an evil bitch, and I’m glad she’s dead. But her son is just as bad. She trained him from the moment he was born to be just like her, taking what he wants and killing whoever gets in the way. Watch out for him,” Phillip says gravely.

“Mmhm,” Michael says, getting slightly worried at the extreme direction Phillip is taking this, “This fella got a name?”

“Gerard Keay. I hear he goes by Gerry Delano now, since his mother’s death; took his father’s name. Don’t worry about what he looks like- you’ll know him when you see him,” Phillip says, distain dripping from his voice. “Now this is important, are you listening? This is important: If you see this man, and I know you won’t like this; it goes against your code and I respect that. But if you see this man… you have to kill him.”

Michael’s blood runs cold as he looks up in shock at Phillip. Michael has never killed before. He has never known a hate or a will strong enough to take the life of another living person. The notion of doing something so inherently terrible as _killing_ … it makes Michael sick. He knows in his heart that he could never kill another human being, but Phillip is looking at him so intently, and there’s so much riding on this, he can’t just say no. So he lies: “Okay.”

“I know it’ll be hard, Michael, but here me. He is evil of the purest sort. He works for the Eye and will stop at nothing to get what he wants, just like his mother.” He says this slowly, like he’s trying to get through to him. Like he knows he isn’t ready.

Michael blinks rapidly and looks away, wishing he had just ignored the call and stayed up on that rooftop. The reality of the situation is sinking cold and hard into his gut. He needs to find as many books as he can, fighting against some of the worst and most dangerous human beings alive to do so, and if he sees one particularly nasty guy, he _must_ kill him; something Michael will not do; cannot do. Well, he supposes, it’d been a good 27 years, now isn’t too bad of a time to end it.

“You can do this, Michael,” Phillip enthuses, “You’ve been training for a decade. You’re a good kid. You can do this.” His tone is coloured sincere, and Michael doesn’t fight the glow of pride growing in his belly.

“It’s actually closer to fifteen,” Michael corrects.

“Huh?”

“I came to you when I was twelve. You put me in wrestling classes within the first month. It’s been fifteen years,” Michael elaborates, the pride fizzling, doubt festering in its place, as Phillip loses track of what he’s saying. Michael shifts uncomfortably in his chair. If he isn’t proud of him now, he will be by the time those seven books are ashes on the wind.

“So I did,” Phillip mumbles, more to himself than to Michael. He checks his watch, and his thick eyebrows climb skyward, “Well, you better get a move on, boy, your flight leaves in an hour.”

“ _Fuck_ ,” Michael says, staggering to his feet and bolting upstairs to start packing.

*

“Hey, have you seen that new movie, the Invisible Man?” Gerry says, scanning his eyes over the statement in his hands. He can’t quite parse if the related entity is the Spiral or the Stranger, but the plotline is uncannily similar to this new movie he saw last week.

Gerry is sitting in Gertrude’s office. She’s been rather busy lately, taking statements and preparing for an upcoming ritual of some sort, so Gerry’s taken to getting his Leitner-related information from her during her lunch breaks. The chair he’s sitting in is not comfortable, but if he puts his feet up on her desk, knocking over various documents in the process, it’s a little more bearable. As far as Gerry knows, it’s a slow week for Leitners, so he’s catching up on some reading.

“No, what is that? A Marvel movie? You know I don’t care for superheroes,” Gertrude says after carefully swallowing her bite of tuna fish sandwich, tapping away into an excel document. She waves at Gerry’s boots propped on her desk. He ignores it.

“Ha, no,” Gerry says, flipping through to another page, “It’s about a woman who is haunted by her abusive husband who died but is actually still alive and invisible. It’s a horror but it’s actually really good.” Gerry tends to avoid horror movies, leaning more toward the odd comedy or drama; he’s got enough horror to deal with in his normal day-to-day, he doesn’t need any more.

“Hm,” Gertrude hums noncommittally. She squints at something on her screen and adjusts her glasses.

“It’s got the woman from the Handmaiden’s Tale in it. You like that show.”

“Hm,” Gertrude says again, nodding her head with raised eyebrows and taking another bite of her sandwich, “She’s good, yes.”

“You should see it, it’s still in cine-.”

“Oh, shit,” Gertrude says under her breath, turning away from her laptop. “I forgot to tell you. Wallace Sawyer died.”

“Ah, Fuck,” Gerry says, dropping the statement into his lap. “When?”

“Could’ve been weeks ago. Important part is that he had his Leitners auctioned off around the globe last night.” Gertrude starts rifling around in one of her desk drawers.

“Christ on a _stick_ , Gertrude,” Gerry says, throwing his hands in the air, “This is the worst-case scenario.”

“Yes, well, no one better than you to take care of it,” Gertrude says, coming up with a manila folder.

“God, there’s going to be so many scumbags after this shit. So much work, and travel. I wanted a nice calm winter, Gertrude, why do you always have to ruin things for me?” he whines, dropping his head over the back of his seat.

Gertrude huffs, ignores his lamenting, and says, “The information is few and far between, whoever is in control of it is dropping locations off one by one, like they’re inviting the inevitable chaos. We know the first location. Barcelona, Spain. You’ll need to get there quickly if you want to beat the rush.”

“Do you have any idea who’s releasing the information?” Gerry asks.

“No idea, only that they’ve got a tight hold on it. Only saying what they want when they want.”

“So I have to go to Barcelona, now? When what I really wanted to do today was do some research then go home early for a nap? Who’s going to feed my cat when I’m away?” Gerry pouts, propping his face sadly on his curled fist.

“Your apartment building has a rat problem, as I recall. I’m sure it’ll sort itself out.”

“She has been getting really fat lately,” Gerry sighs, leaning forward onto his knees to dig his fingers into his eyes, “Gertrude, I’m getting too old for this.”

Gertrude frowns at him, “Gerry, you are 28 years old. Quit whining. I’ve already booked you a ticket, so you better get moving. It’s a middle seat at 4 a.m. tomorrow, so you might want to take that nap after all.”

“Gertrude…” Gerry starts, getting up from his chair, uncharacteristically serious, “Be honest. How dangerous is this going to be?”

Gertrude purses her lips and takes a moment to roll the question around in her mind. “I think that you will need to be on your best game. There’s no telling how many people will be going after these books. It may be two, it may be ten, but they’re all going to want to get to these Leitners as much as you do, maybe more, and you need to be prepared for that. You need to be prepared to take down whoever might come at you, because I don’t think anyone else is in this for the safety of the world. All they care about is the profit they can make.”

There’s a long pause where neither of them says anything, Gertrude looking like she wants to go back to her sandwich, tense atmosphere not allowing it. Gerry looks contemplative. “I don’t want to kill anyone, Gertrude. I will if I have to, but that whole thing with the Buried last year… it really fucked me up. What if I can’t do it?”

Gertrude leans forward and waits until Gerry is looking her in the eye before speaking, “Gerry, I trust no one more than you with this task. You’re a good man, and I know you’ll do what’s right.”

Gerry nods once, resolute, and takes his jacket from the back of his seat before moving to the door, “Thanks, Gertrude. Text me that address, alright?”

“Be seeing you, Gerard,” Gertrude says, waving him off with the closest thing to a smile Gerry’s ever seen on her face.

*

God, it’s way too early for this shit, the sun isn’t even up yet for Christ’s sake. The world outside is dark save for the blinking lights of airplanes landing and taking off. Inside the airport is a weird neutral zone, where time doesn’t exist, and Gerry feels like he’s in hell. He fights off the fatigue clawing at his bones and sits up in his chair outside his gate. The coffee he had grabbed on the way here is growing cold in its cup and Gerry really wishes he was at home in his bed, instead of about to embark on the most dangerous holiday he’s ever been on with half a day’s notice and absolutely no preparation. 

Why did Gertrude have to book him a red-eye flight? Surely the Institute can spare enough funds for an aisle seat? Gerry swears if he’s seated next to a baby, he will spend the entire flight in the toilet. He sighs, time _is_ kind of an important factor here, he supposes. And he needs to keep on the alert. No telling when he’ll run into a fellow book hunter. He’d already seen one man taken aside for having knives in his carry-on.

As he lifts his head to scan the immediate vicinity, he spies a tall blond man at the security gate, watching his bag anxiously as it rolls through the scanner. Gerry would think, with such a worried look, that the man was trying to sneak through a bunch of illegal shit. Gerry looks him over a little more thoroughly. 

His hair is long and curly, tumbling in messy ringlets over a plain sweater. He’s slim with broad shoulders and when he passes through the gate with a sweet, sincere smile tossed at the guard, Gerry thinks, nope, he’s too soft, and his gaze moves on. Not too quickly, though, because Gerry can appreciate a cute guy when he sees one, even if he doesn’t have time for anything else.

Gerry sinks low in his seat as everyone he sees becomes suspect, not wanting anyone to recognise him. It’s not that he has a lot of enemies (though he does), it’s that he has a certain… aesthetic that puts a lot of people on edge. And if any of these people are heading to Barcelona for the same reason, that middle-aged Mum, that 50 year old man with a beer gut, that old lady with two young kids, whoever, then they’re going to be on him like white on rice when the plane lands.

This is going to be a long few months.

*


	2. BOOK 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A fateful first meeting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've said it before, I'll say it again: BUFF GERRY RIGHTS

**BARCELONA, Spain**

Michael has a few hours on the plane to work himself into a nice anxious mess. What if he isn’t fast enough? What if he isn’t strong enough? What if he can’t fight off everyone who’s come for the book? There are so many questions whirling around in his mind and he tries his best to shoot them down as soon as they crop up. Because he knows he can do this, he does. He just has to have faith in himself. That’s the only way to show Phillip that he’s worthy of his pride.

An older lady beside him on the plane lays a hand on his arm as they’re about to land and asks him if this is his first time flying. It isn’t, but Michael can’t think of a valid excuse for being so nervous besides ‘I have so many knives in my bags,’ so he just nods and lets her pat his arm reassuringly through the decent.

The Barcelona airport is cool and clean as he steps on solid ground, but quickly turns dry and hot the closer to the exit he walks. He gets through security with no problems and waits, jittery and impatient, for his bags to roll through. It’s getting almost unbearably warm now, so Michael strips off his sweater. The general atmosphere of holiday and travel and family-fun that’s milling through the area is stifling, and Michael is beginning to feel vaguely nauseous as more and more people collect their bags and head out. Any one of them could be here for the book. Any one of them could be getting to it before Michael, just because his bags are taking a little longer.

He had seen a few questionable travellers in the London airport, like the dark-haired man with the make-up trying his best to be subtle… but he had been on a different flight, so Michael isn’t worried. He tries to tell himself that he has time, that Phillip had been as proactive as he could regarding the information available, that he couldn’t have got here any earlier, but still the doubt nags at him. Doubt that he isn’t good enough. He shakes his head as his discreet black suitcase finally rolls around: he is determined to do what’s right. To save lives. 

Michael is booked into the nearest hotel to the address that Phillip had given him. He had booked in as he waited to board and his heart sinks to find that the hotel is at least ten kilometres away. He really needs to move fast. He gets outside and the wave of heat that greets him is completely unpleasant. There are taxis readily available however, and he wastes no time in finding one and relaying the hotel’s address. 

By the time the taxi has pulled up outside of the hotel, a tall red building with wide windows and an airy, open plan, Michael is nearly vibrating out of his skin. He’s no stranger to nerves, but the stress and adrenaline pouring through his veins right now is like nothing he’s ever felt before. Vaguely the feeling reminds him of being late for some meeting or other, intensity times a thousand.

He pays the driver with a generous tip and practically sprints into the building. He nearly screams when he sees a line stretching out from the reception desk. Waiting in line seems to take years, while in reality it probably takes less than ten minutes. He’d already wasted enough time taxiing over here, though, and Michael barely gives himself time to thank the bell boy properly before he’s swinging his backpack over his shoulder and racing out of the building and down the street.

Michael has never been to Spain before. He would much rather his first trip here be to sight see and indulge in the local culture. As he takes off down the road, scanning the vibrant red and yellow buildings for their addresses and following the route he had laid out on the map, he laments the fact he may not ever get to come back here to take it all in thoroughly.

He sprints past a small gap between buildings, could hardly even call it an alley, and nearly stops to investigate when he hears a definite gunshot bounce off the tall stone walls. He doesn’t though; he’s running out of time. There’s no way to tell whether it was Leitner-related or just a mundane street shooting. He moves on.

Finally he skids to a halt in front of a large stone archway. This is definitely the address, definitely the place on the map that he had marked. How had he not realised it was a fucking University? How on God’s green earth was he going to find anything here? He pushes through the dread clawing at his gut and tells himself that probably everyone looking for this book had gone through the same thing. His Spanish is rather good, he can ask around; maybe this will buy him some time.

The campus is wide and green with beautiful stone buildings arching up into the cloudless blue sky. There are many students lounging, talking, and reading on the grass, more hurrying between buildings with various textbooks clutched in their arms. A young man with dark hair passes Michael at the entrance and smiles at him briefly.

Michael smiles back, putting a little more flirt into it than is probably necessary as he says, “Disculpe? Profesora Natalia Noguera? Oficina?”

The boy’s smile grows into a smirk as his eyes wander over Michael’s tall frame and pale skin. He likes what he sees and Michael curses himself for wasting even more time for choosing the flirt option. He smiles apologetically and tells the guy that he’s in a hurry, “Tengo prisa.”

His face falls a little and Michael allows himself to feel just the slightest bit bad because this guy is pretty handsome, actually. He points toward a tall bell tower in the east corner of the campus and says, “En el campanaria.”

Michael pours all the gratitude he can fit into his smile as he says, “Gracias,” and jogs away toward the tower. The guy shouts something after him. Michael thinks he’s telling him that he’ll be in Biology later if he wants to come by. Sure, if Michael isn’t dead or burning a dangerous fear book by then.

He comes to the bottom of a staircase that spirals up toward the bell tower that Michael had seen from outside. The air is blessedly cooler here, and with only a few small windows climbing up the stone wall, it takes his eyes a moment to adjust to the dim light. Michael doesn’t take any time to appreciate the blessed lack of heat as he approaches the metal railing and starts ascending the stairs three steps at a time.

A sharp noise rings out as a bullet ricochets off the railing and Michael ducks, turning to see who had fired. It’s a large man with intricate tattoos winding up his arms. He’s tall and wide, his face speaking of years of doing dangerous shit like this at the behest of the rich and powerful. There is a heavy looking gun in his hand. It’s pointed straight at Michael as the man says something in a gravelly Russian dialect. 

Michael doesn’t think as he vaults over the railing and rushes the man, dodging to the right just as he gets another shot off, gripping the man’s gun hand and slamming the arm down over his knee before driving an elbow into his face as he doubles over in pain. He takes the gun and unloads it, tossing it to the side before taking the man in a choke hold. 

It’s moments like these that Michael wishes he didn’t have such a strict moral compass. It would have been so much easier to just shoot this bastard instead of waiting ‘til he passes out under the pressure of Michael’s arms. Moments pass and Michael becomes worried that this guy’s neck is just too thick, but then he stops pawing at his arms and slumps heavy to the ground.

Michael drops him and continues up the stairs. He’s within sight of the door when he hears another few gunshots, further away this time, but definitely on-campus. They’re accompanied by a few panicked screams and shouts, and Michael hopes against hope that none of these innocent students are getting hurt.

He’s just about to dig around in his bag for his lock-picking kit when he sees the door is already busted open, thin wood dangling useless and splintered from its hinges as whoever is inside searches for the book.

Legs beginning to ache from running and lungs pumping air like there’s no tomorrow, Michael enters the room, knife drawn. He tries not to think about the fact that he might have to use it.

The room is long and spacious, several windows looking out over the adjacent street and the campus. It’s a large office, with a desk at one end and the other occupied by multiple shelves, cabinets, and display cases, containing books and trinkets, awards, and certificates. The sign on the tattered door reads Profesora Natalia Noguera, the woman who bought the first of Sawyer’s seven Leitners.

In the middle of the room, pushed to one side and sitting below a window is a wooden chest. A man crouches in front of it, with what looks like a metal briefcase beside him, facing away from Michael as he fiddles with the lock.

“Step away from the chest,” Michael says slowly, sternly. He hopes that he sounds imposing enough and doesn’t sound like he just ran up six flights of stairs. The man freezes and Michael watches with bated breath as he raises his hands up beside his head and stands, achingly slow. He turns around.

The man is younger than Michael had been expecting, and he suspects that he might actually be the same age. He’s a lot shorter than Michael, but by the looks of it, what he may lack in height, he definitely compensates for in strength. He’s wearing a leather vest and dark jeans that are as ripped as his arms. The make up around his eyes is dark and smudged like he’d applied it yesterday and hadn’t fixed it since. Michael realises with a start that this is the man he’d seen at the London Airport and had told himself not to worry about. How stupid could he get? 

The man’s tan arms and bare hands reveal a number of interesting features, specifically a shit tonne of eye tattoos littering his joints. Another realisation hits Michael: this is Gerard Keay. Or Gerry Delano, he apparently prefers. This is the man who is evil in its purest form, according to Phillip. This is the man he’s supposed to kill, no questions asked. 

A pit opens up in Michael’s stomach as he looks at him and sees how definitively _human_ he is. Aside from the strange tats and alternative style, there’s really nothing about him that screams ‘evil’. If he was some kind of all-seeing eye monster, surely he’d be able to see how shitty his dye job is, right?

Gerry seems to be eyeing Michael over in return as he spins around. Then he laughs, a quizzical smirk on his face, “You don’t even have a gun.”

Michael frowns, not liking the patronising look on this guy’s face. “Why would I need one?”

Gerry shakes his head leisurely, like this isn’t a life-threatening situation for both of them, and shrugs. Michael doesn’t let it distract him; this could be a diversion. “No, it’s just that you said, ‘Step away from the chest’ all commanding-like, like you were pointing a gun at me, but you aren’t.”

Michael is getting fed up with this guy. He’s so close to the book, it’s literally _right there_. All that’s in his way is this weird, apparently evil, eye-goth who he’s been given explicit permission to use deadly force upon. “Look, who fucking cares if I’ve got a gun or not? Just get out of the way, or I’ll fuck you up.”

Gerry looks a little taken aback at the order and smiles a little, looking Michael over once more, dark lashes fanning long across his tan cheeks as he takes his time sizing Michael up. Michael fights down a blush at the attention and reminds himself that this guy is as despicable as they come. “No.”

“What?” Michael feels an unfamiliar burn of rage rising in his chest. Who the fuck does this guy think he is?

“I said,” Gerry emphasizes, drawing the words out like he’s talking to a five-year-old, “I think I’ll take my chances with your little knife, blondie.”

Okay, Michael thinks, Gerry Delano may or may not be evil, but Christ alive he’s a fucking bitch. He tightens his grip on the knife for a moment, considering his options, before he drops it to the floor. “Fine. But I’ll even it up a little.”

Gerry raises his eyebrows, like he’s impressed at Michael’s boldness, before his eyes open wide in surprise. Michael takes a split second longer to register the sound of a gunshot and a searing, ripping pain lancing through his neck. In a second, he’s on the ground, clutching at the steady flow of blood down the side of his throat. God, _fuck_ that hurts. 

Michael slides his fingers over the gash and his hands come away red, but the cut isn’t deep. It won’t kill him. He rolls over, trying to see straight, and his eyes focus on an interesting scene.

Gerry is pressed against the wall beside the broken door as another man, broad and bald, slinks into the room, casting around for any potential opponents. Michael feigns lifelessness as his eyes pass over his position on the ground. He watches carefully as Gerry springs into action, stabbing his bent elbow into the man’s throat, earning a choked gurgle, before swinging him around by the front of his shirt and slamming his forehead into the man’s nose. Michael blinks in surprise at the explosive ferocity in the goth’s movements.

The man staggers away from him, holding his crushed windpipe and scraping out hoarse curses in another language. He raises his gun to point in Gerry’s face. He swats it away and a shot fires off dangerously close to where Michael is struggling into a sitting position. Gerry yanks the gun from the man’s hand just as he swings a large fist into Gerry’s face, landing with a dull crunch. Gerry grunts and stumbles before aiming the gun at the man’s chest and pulling the trigger. The gun clicks empty and both men look at it for a moment before Gerry reels it back, white shine of his teeth dulled by the red of his blood flowing from a split lip as he clenches his jaw and pitches the pistol point blank into the other man’s face.

The bald man whips his head back in time for the gun to only glance off his brow. Gerry lets out a guttural yell as he charges the guy and barrels him over into a low glass display case. The case shatters and shards of glass skitter across the room and glitter a deadly rainbow in the mid-afternoon sun. Michael thinks this is the best probable time to go for the book, and makes a break for it, not moving too fast in case he draws either man’s attention. 

He continues to watch though, as Gerry sits astride the man’s waist and takes a hold of his collar, hauling him up and slamming him back down into the glassy floor once, twice, three times, the sound of glass crunching under the man’s skull. The sounds that Gerry makes, enraged and feral, as he pulls his fist back time and again, fill Michael with a visceral relief that he isn’t on the end of his attack right now, and gut-churning fear that he might be soon if he doesn’t get this book and go.

The other man is still fighting back though, Michael knows because he can hear the panting of both men as he heaves the heavy lid off of the chest and finds what he’s looking for; what they’re all looking for. The book is large and leather-bound. It looks old; old enough that Michael is unable to read the title or even discern what language it might be. All that is irrelevant however, because Michael’s going to have this thing in ashes before long. He’s just about to take the book into his hands when he hears one of the worst sounds that he’s ever heard in his life. He looks over his shoulder to see Gerry on his back, the bald man above him, and Gerry is digging his thumbs into the other man’s eyes. The scream tearing itself from the man’s throat as he claws at Gerry’s hands is surely going to haunt Michael.

Can’t think about that trauma now though, he’s gotta get this book out. He stands with the book in his hands and is just about to make a run for it out the door when his path is suddenly blocked. Gerry is in front of him, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and breathing heavily. Michael takes a few steps back and glares at the man. His hands and lower lip are red with blood and his eyes are wild but focused. His dark hair is coming loose from its bun and falling into his eyes and sweat is beading across his forehead. Michael can’t help but think it would almost be hot if he didn’t just watch the guy probably murder a man. _A man that could’ve killed you_ , he reminds himself, before shoving that thought away. Michael is not about justifying murder.

“Where were we?” Gerry says, a little breathless.

“Uh, you were moving out of the way?” Michael tries, unsuccessfully.

Gerry laughs without humour and reaches out a bloody hand. It glistens in the sun and if Michael hadn’t spent the last 15 years training the instinct out of him, he would almost definitely be vomiting at the sight. “Just give me the book.”

The response that instinctually rises in Michael’s throat is ‘Fuck you,’ but he feels like that wouldn’t get him anywhere. And Michael thinks he would most likely die if he got into it with Gerry, so he tries for a different approach. “I’m sure we can work something out.”

This seems to genuinely amuse Gerry as he lowers his hand and says, “Oh, yeah? What were you thinking?”

Michael’s mind draws a blank for any kind of bargain he might strike with him, so he says slowly, to bide his time, “I was thinking… that you would, uh, let me go… with the book… and then this whole thing would be over.” He tries a smile, but he knows it probably just looks like a grimace.

Gerry scoffs, “Yeah, fat chance. Looks like we’re at an impasse.”

“Looks like,” Michael agrees, edging a little closer to the other man. He’s at an odd crossroad where he really doesn’t want to make eye contact, but also doesn’t want to come off as a coward for _not_ making eye contact. Gerry doesn’t seem too keen to look him in the eyes either. 

“Tell me one thing,” Gerry says after an uncomfortable moment of silence, “How did you find your way here so easily?”

Michael frowns at the line of questioning, not wanting to give too much of himself away. If both of them manage out of this encounter alive, Michael doesn’t want Gerry to know more about him than absolutely necessary “Asked around. I speak Spanish.”

Gerry makes a face like he’s only a little bit impressed, “Educated, then? Probably been at this a while?”

Michael keeps his lips sealed.

Gerry looks him over for a moment, tension in his stance fading a little, “Why’ve I never heard of you?”

“Not all of us are well known legacies, Keay,” Michael says, growing annoyed.

Gerry’s face darkens and Michael takes a proverbial step back, thinking outright animosity isn’t the way to get out of this. He doesn’t know exactly what about his statement put Gerry off, though. Perhaps it has something to do with the fact that he stopped using his mother’s name after she died. 

There’s something he hadn’t considered: if Mary had spent his whole life training Gerry to be just like her, moulding him into the perfect, blood-thirsty, book-hunting automaton in her image… why hadn’t he kept her name? Why would the sound of it aggravate him?

“I’m getting tired of this. Give me the book,” Gerry says.

His voice is low as he speaks, and Michael realises suddenly that the campus is quiet. There’s no buzz of conversation, no shatter of ricocheting bullets, not even any sirens yet. The grounds have probably been evacuated, but no one has called any authorities, yet. Michael has some time. He decides on a questionable course of action and smiles coyly at Gerry.

“Listen, it doesn’t have to be like this. Maybe we could work together.” Michael bites his lip and lets his eyes wander over Gerry, lingering on his sharp jawline and chapped lips, strong shoulders, and solid thighs. Does he know what he’s doing with all that leather? He’s not exactly hating the view, but he’s definitely hating the man it belongs to. Michael’s hoping he hasn’t used up all of his charm on that random student from earlier.

Gerry narrows his eyes at him, looking like he’s trying to decipher the sincerity of the offer. “Oh, yeah? I hardly think we want the same thing here, so how would that work?”

Yeah, Gerry probably sells it for profit, the bastard, Michael thinks. “Oh, I wasn’t exactly thinking about the book…” he says suggestively, drawing his bottom lip into his mouth and looking through his lashes at the man.

Gerry’s eyes widen a little, and his face reddens. Michael can’t quite help the rush of smug pride at making such a vicious man blush so easily. Michael smiles coyly and takes the book in one hand, bringing it down to his side. Michael waits until Gerry’s eyes follow the motion, checks that he’s close enough, and swings a fist into Gerry’s face.

Michael moved fast, and Gerry barely blocks it. His expression changes quickly as he glares at Michael, his arm straining as he pushes the attack away. For the first time Michael feels the power in those arms and feels a mild existential dread at having to fight this man. He almost wishes he had continued on the seduction path, with arms like that. 

Just as he’s thinking this, the book in his opposite hand starts to glow with an otherworldly heat, and Michael drops it in surprise and pain.

Gerry darts to the side and dives for the book, scooping it into the metal briefcase he’d had open on the floor and locking it quickly. Michael clutches his burnt hand for a moment before shoving the searing heat to the back of his mind and landing a solid kick to Gerry’s chest as he gets up. Michael curses: it feels like kicking a wall. He grunts as he overbalances and lands on the floor, rolling onto his hip as the briefcase slides away from him.

Michael doesn’t have any time to consider going for the case before Gerry’s already back on his feet. There’s absolutely nothing stopping Gerry from taking the briefcase and running, but for some reason, he stays his ground, and hefts the briefcase up in his arms.

Michael sees the blow coming and quickly ducks under it, the metal whistling past the top of his head. Gerry swears as Michael tackles him around the waist and slams him into the wall beside the door so hard that the wooden stone shudders beneath their combined weight. Before Michael can stand up, he feels a weight drive hard into the lower half of his spine and he stumbles backward. Gerry had brought the briefcase down hard on his back.

Michael lets himself tumble back onto the floor and uses the momentum to sweep Gerry’s legs out from under him. He topples over, hitting his head on the edge of a bookcase on the way down, and drops the case. It spins across the floor and Michael scrambles over to it, arm reaching toward it, but he’s crushed into the floor by a large, warm, weight. Gerry is sitting on him. Seems to be a favourite move of his.

Michael struggles under the weight, lungs compressing painfully. A surge of panic fills his lungs as he feels Gerry grab a fistful of his hair and yank his head backward. He thinks for one horrible moment that he might just reach a knife around and slit his throat, but the slide of the blade doesn’t come. Instead Gerry just slams his face down into the hardwood floor. He turns his head at the last second to avoid breaking his nose. This seems to be another part of his MO. Michael files these nuggets of information away for later, because if he’s getting out of this alive, he’s definitely going to run into this fucker again.

Michael has to get out of this alive. He just has to. Dying is simply not an option. There are six more books out there that are going to rip the world apart if he doesn’t get to them first. The fact that they were ever released in the first place is horrifying on its own, but the idea that they won’t be stopped doesn’t even bear thinking about. He has to win this fight, and probably more in the future, if he wants to keep everyone safe, and make Phillip proud.

He waits until Gerry pulls his head up again, wincing and preparing his arms beneath him, and when Gerry yanks, he pushes up with him. The unexpected momentum throws Gerry off of his back and Michael can suddenly breathe again. He follows around with an elbow to Gerry’s nose and a jab at his throat. Gerry recovers quickly, still gasping for air, and aims a sloppy punch at Michael’s face. Michael jerks his head back and the swing doesn’t land.

There’s a tense moment where the both of them are sizing each other up, waiting for the other to move. They’re both on their feet and the book sits equally as far from both of them. They’re on equal footing. Finally Gerry throws a fist out, and Michael ducks. He realises as soon as he does it that Gerry had just been feigning and receives a crushing kick to his chest as he drops into Gerry’s range. Michael grabs Gerry’s boot as the wind rushes out of him, and it isn’t enough to keep him upright, but it is enough to lever the other man into another display case. The structure breaks under him and Gerry swears loudly as he’s showered with glass.

Michael gasps, crushed chest struggling to loosen enough to bring in any air. Gerry recovers quicker and dives for the metal case before Michael is even on his feet.

He looks up and has a split second to take in the sight of Gerry, teeth gritted, eyes wild, swinging the case once again toward his head. Michael’s last thought before the blow connects and he’s knocked unconscious is ‘God, this guy fucking _sucks_.’

*

Gerry slumps against the wall as Michael finally falls onto his back, properly unconscious this time. Christ alive, he had almost got him with that surprise attack. Gerry needs to stop getting so distracted by pretty boys. He nudges the man gently with his boot, making sure he is truly out before putting the case down and checking his pulse. Gerry really hadn’t wanted to kill anyone on this trip. It’s the first book of seven, and if the first one is this bad, well… he’s in for a great vacation.

He fits two fingers against the man’s throat and is relieved to find a strong pulse. He checks the other side of his neck, where he had been shot, and finds that the wound is superficial and likely won’t kill him. He breathes a sigh of relief, then reprimands himself. He can’t be getting soft, crying over every person he can’t help but subdue. What if he _had_ killed this guy? What then? Would he allow it to get to him?

Gerry looks the guy over. Blond hair, round face, dark shirt, dark jeans. He sticks his hands into his pockets and finds only an airline ticket, which he throws away. He rolls him over, and there’s nothing in his back pockets, but he is wearing a backpack. Gerry pulls it off and rifles through it. There’s an iPhone. Not the newest, but in fairly good condition. He clicks the home button and finds no notifications, and the background set to the factory option. Gerry tries a few combinations like ‘1234’ and ‘0000’ to no avail and decides to just smash the phone. He lays the phone down on the man’s chest and mutters “That’s for using apple products.”

There are at least 5 different knives in the bag, all of which Gerry can’t fit in his waistband without cutting himself, so he just takes the biggest two. There’s a passport and license, too. Michael Shelley, 27. Hm, he looks younger, Gerry thinks as he looks once more at his face. Gerry realises suddenly that this is the same guy he’d seen at the airport before his flight. Gerry hadn’t recognised him with his hair up, no sweater. Probably the most unrecognisable thing about him here was the hard, determined glint in his eye that had replaced the abundant nerves from earlier.

Gerry hadn’t given this Michael enough credit. This sweet-looking boy has guts. He had completely underestimated him; this fucker put up a surprisingly good fight. He hadn’t expected him to try and _seduce_ him, either. That was entirely out of left field. Who does this guy think he is? And Gerry had almost fallen for it. He shakes his head free of that embarrassing line of thought; he can deal with that when he doesn’t have bodies to loot and books to burn.

He dumps the rest of the bag out and finds nothing of interest besides a few thousand pounds, which he stuffs into the briefcase along with the Leitner. He’s about to get up and leave with the book when a glint of light catches his eye. He looks over to see the light from outside reflecting off the zipper of Michael’s boots. 

“Hm, nice boots,” Gerry mumbles, aligning his foot with them and finding they’re too big for him. Annoyed, he tugs the boots off and throws them out the window.

The other man across the room is in worse shape. He’s still alive, the back of his head bleeding heavily from various cuts and face a mottled mess of yellows and purples as it begins to bruise. He’s not sure if he’ll survive the night. His pockets produce nothing but a few more guns that Gerry empties and lays back on his chest.

Gerry looks back for a moment as he leaves the room, unsure if he’s doing the right thing by leaving these guys alive. In all likeliness, they’re in it for the long haul, and will just be more of a nuisance to him over the next few months. It would certainly make things easier if they were dead. With any luck the bald man will die before he wakes, but Michael will definitely survive. Gerry can’t kill him, though. As humiliating as it is that he nearly fell for Michael’s false advancements, he’s too young to die. His face is handsome, but young and unblemished. Gerry can’t help but feel that it would be a deeper sort of evil if he killed him.

Gerry reminds himself that he’s almost certainly here for the book so that he can sell it on, bringing more death and destruction to the world. Whatever, Gerry thinks, if he’s a problem later, he’ll just have to deal with it later, too. All actions have consequences.

*

Gerry gets back to his hotel room and locks the door. He hunts around for a waste paper basket and finds one in the bathroom. He carefully pulls the book from the case and sets it down in the bin. Thinking back to the fight earlier, Gerry remembers Michael having dropped it and clutching his hand, as if it had burnt. It’s probably a desolation Leitner, Gerry thinks, as he flicks open his lighter. Flame will probably do the opposite of what he wants here.

He picks the book up and examines it. It’s old as hell, and is warming in his hands by the second, until he can barely hold it without his skin bubbling up. Gerry quickly sets about ripping the pages out, one by one until the book is just a piece of old leather, which he tears in half as well, throwing it all into the bin. His hands are blistering and shaking by the end as he sets the pile ablaze. He flexes his hands and the red skin stretches uncomfortably.

He dials Gertrude’s number and puts it on speaker beside the bathroom sink, running cold water over his hands as he waits for her to pick up.

“Hello?” Gerry can practically hear her disinterested raise of an eyebrow as she holds the phone between her ear and her shoulder.

“Gertrude, it’s me,” Gerry says.

Some shuffling, “Oh. Are you alright? I’m assuming it’s all sort of… happened, then, yes?”

“Yeah, I’m alive. The book’s destroyed. Your welcome. Have you heard of a Michael Shelley by any chance?” Gerry speeds through the pleasantries.

“Well the name is not immediately familiar. Why?”

“Ran into him on location. Obviously, he was there for the book as well. He was the only other English bloke I encountered, and he could definitely hold his own in a fight, but I’ve never heard of him before. Like, I get the feel that this definitely isn’t his first time at the rodeo, so to speak, but… I don’t know, Gertrude, I just feel like it’s weird that there’s someone out of London that hunts Leitners that I’ve just never heard of, right?”

“Hm, well, maybe he’s just a little more discreet about it than you, Gerard. Your mother made quite a name for herself and only really associated with other big personalities. But other people don’t generally have the same notoriety as you.”

“I guess you’re right. Still… the little bugger tried to flirt his way out of it, can you believe that?”

“Ha! Did it work?”

Gerry coughs discreetly, watching his own face grow red in the mirror, “Well, I got the book, didn’t I?”

“That you did. And… You know, I may have something for you, actually.” Gerry can hear papers shifting around on the other end.

“What’s that?”

“Have you heard the name Phillip Mordecai?”

Gerry rolls the name around in his memory for a moment, and comes up blank, “No, you know I’m not great with names.”

“He used to be quite active, some decades ago, now. I believe he knew your mother. I never met him personally, but I do know that he spent most of his time finding dangerous artefacts and Leitners, just like you or Mary. No one ever really knew what he did with them, and when Mary parted ways with him, he kind of fell off the map for a while. Then-.”

“Gertrude, this guy sounds old as balls, Michael Shelley is a young fella.”

“Let me finish,” she says sternly.

“Sorry.”

“About, oh, probably twenty years ago, now, there were rumours of him trying to adopt children, and train them up to carry on his legacy. Like a little army.”

“Well, did he get any?”

“I don’t know, they were only rumours, and he was always a very private man. It may be nothing, but when you say discreet, I think of Mordecai. If the rumours are true, this could be his little army, all grown up.”

“Alright, thanks Gertrude. I’m going to go bandage my hands up now, so, uh, text me with the next location, soon as you can?”

“Goodbye, Gerard.”

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was really fun to write and I'm looking forward to writing the rest of the fic, too.  
> let me know what you think in the comments or come yell at me on tumblr @theroswellcrashsite


	3. BOOK 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the rivalry grows

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> some over confidence. some angst.  
> enjoy ;0
> 
> also FUCK that Lovecraft hoe

**HANOI, Vietnam**

Gerry is having trouble focusing. He’s got a map of the area laid out in front of him, location marked with an x and his hotel marked with a circle. He just needs to draw out the easiest route between the two and he’ll be all set to destroy Sawyer’s second Leitner. If only he could focus.

There are a number of distractions around him. The plane is just as cramped as the last one, and somehow Gerry had been seated in an even worse position. The man beside him is snoring so loud, it sounds like he’s sawing logs, and the woman on his other side has her headphones turned so far up that Gerry can hear the tinny conversation of some movie or other playing out on her screen. And to make matters just that tiny bit more unbearable, there’s a baby across the aisle who hasn’t stopped crying since take off.

He’s managed to drown all that out, just barely, by blasting his own music as loud as it will go through his earphones. But he still can’t seem to focus, his mind just won’t stay in one place.

For one thing, he keeps thinking of all the major inconveniences of the last run. Specifically a very tall and attractive inconvenience. Michael Shelley was a real fucking spanner in the works. Sure, Gerry had managed to overpower him, but it hadn’t been easy, and there’s no telling how any future encounters might result. Every other person he had come across in Spain had been foreign, not from the UK or Spain, and Gerry had come to the easy conclusion that they weren’t here to get the book for themselves; they were hired work.

Many interested parties after the alleged power of these Leitners don’t have the ability to come track them down themselves. Instead they tend to use expendable lackeys like that bald man that had shot Michael. Gerry ignores the nagging memory of how relieved he’d been when the wound hadn’t been fatal. In any case, if everyone else he runs into on this trip is similarly detached from the mission, Gerry has absolutely no doubt that he’ll be able to jump those hurdles.

But Michael… he’s in it for his own gain. Either to sell the books for a fortune to retire on or keep them for himself and complete whatever evil deeds he wants with them. That determination in his gaze wasn’t a will to do good for an employer, that was personal. And that makes Michael dangerous. In hindsight, Gerry is kicking himself for not taking him out of the game completely, even if it would tax on his soul later. Even so, if Gerry were to see him again, and he’s fairly sure he might, he knows he won’t be able to deliver that killing blow.

The most Gerry can do at the moment is learn from that fight and improve. He’s at a bit of a disadvantage in that department, he thinks. Michael had ample time to observe his technique when he had fought the other man. If he has any sort of strategic know-how, he would’ve been watching.

Michael had been fast. Gerry’s certain that if he had run the first time that he’d had the book in his grasp, Michael would have caught up to him quick. Gerry’s positive that he has the advantage in strength, but Michael’s height and speed might be an issue. The way he fought was… clean, like his techniques were practiced and perfected rather than beaten into him through necessity. That might be a good thing, though. If Michael isn’t fond of using such unorthodox methods as Gerry’s, all that training and long-leg-having might be for nothing. 

Speaking of those long legs… Gerry is still beating himself up for nearly falling for that trick he pulled. What a dick move, Gerry thinks, biting his lip all hot and seductive. Michael’s definitely got balls. There was nothing to indicate that that move would have worked, anyway, was there? Does Gerry give off that vibe? Is he so obviously touch-starved that even his new nemesis can tell?

Gerry doesn’t really date much. The last time he went on something that might be considered a date was years ago, and it hadn’t ended well. And any action he’d seen since were awkward one-night stands that left both parties feeling embarrassed and dissatisfied. He hadn’t even been looking for that kind of thing. The only reason he goes to bars these days is to forget the kind of life he’s living, not to fool around with the first pretty face he sees. So who can blame him, really, if the only touch he’s felt in months, years maybe, got him a little red in the face? Even if it had been a vicious fight.

He isn’t worried, though. He’d bested Michael once; he can do it again. A voice in the back of his mind tells him that he’d already underestimated Michael once, and that he should probably avoid doing it again. Gerry ignores it because he definitely isn’t worried. At all.

Gerry figures he’s pretty good for time as he collects his bags from the carousel, he had been first to the last one, there’s no reason why he hasn’t beaten the rush this time, as well. He keeps his head on a swivel, though. It’d be stupid to be caught off guard when this is lining up to be an easy steal.

Checking into the hotel goes off without a hitch. It isn’t as nice as the last one, with an unpleasant paint job peeling off the walls and the pillows smelling of mothballs, but at least it’s close to the location. If the pattern of hotels he’s put up in continues on like this, Gerry’s going to be sleeping on a cardboard box in an alley by the seventh book. He double checks the map and takes his time tucking knives into every part of his outfit that will allow it before heading toward the second Leitner. 

The streets are filled with people, street vendors, tourists, and locals alike. It’s cramped. It’s sweaty. It’s horrible. Gerry wishes he hadn’t been so confident in the amount of time he had as he squeezes his way through the crowds, almost losing track of where he is several times. A cyclist zooms past him and he has to push down the urge to knock him off his bike. Finally, after at least ten minutes of fighting against the intense foot traffic, he arrives.

The building is narrow and out-of-the-way. The backstreet it sits in has a meagre three shops attached and sports relatively low activity. There’s a large man standing beside the door, dark shirt sleeves straining to contain his muscles and hair shorn menacingly short. He holds an arm across Gerry’s body as he goes to step into the shop.

Gerry is preparing himself for a bit of a scuffle when the man says, in perfect English, “Are you prepared to buy something?”

The man’s tone carries a particular weight to it that lets Gerry know that there is a correct answer. He nods slowly, gesturing cautiously to his metal briefcase. The man’s eyes flick toward it, and Gerry’s just beginning to get the anxiety sweats from the suspense when he nods and lifts his arm away from Gerry.

He releases a discreet sigh of relief as he steps through the wooden door. Inside is brightly lit, with high energy bulbs hanging from the ceiling on industrial looking chains. The floor is concrete and stained, greasy spots shining in the light. Gerry gets the feeling that this place must be a reserved location for pop-up stores.

The walls are lined with glass cases, and Gerry looks at them with a wince, remembering the bell tower. He scratches his right arm, feeling the shallow cuts from being thrown into that last display case pull under his shirt. These aren’t filled with awards and certificates, though.

On display are various antique items; old blades, crusty books, rusted jewellery. The range of different items is vast, spanning over countries and time. The only common thread between them is that they’re all delicately old, and all awfully expensive. Momentarily enthralled, Gerry gazes in awe at the sheer value of the room, taking in the prices and cringing as he feels a phantom blow to his bank account as he looks at each one. Thankfully, anything he may buy here will come right out of the Institute’s budget.

The store is also completely empty of people save for a short Vietnamese man behind a low counter, smiling cheerfully and beckoning Gerry over. He returns a wave and a cautious smile. Home run, he thinks, as he approaches. Not a sketchy person in sight. Burley bouncer at the door in case someone does show up. Fat wad of cash in his case to buy this book with. This could not have been easier. 

The man grins wide as Gerry stops in front of him, revealing several missing teeth and a few gold ones. He says something in Vietnamese.

Gerry smiles as sincerely as he can manage and tells him, in the only memorised Vietnamese he has, “Sorry, do you speak English?”

The man smiles wider and nods enthusiastically before saying in heavily accented English, “Yes, I do. I am Dinh Hoàng. You are?”

Gerry takes a moment to answer, trying really hard to think of a fake name. “Uh, Burt. Burt Robinson.” He does his best not to cringe.

“Okay, Mr. Robinson. What would you like to purchase?”

“I was told that you stocked a particular book. I think you only got it in recently?” He has to tread carefully. He doesn’t know if the book is for sale or simply just being held here. If he lets on what he knows before they do, he might be in trouble.

“Ah, yes. Leitner?” Hoàng says with a mischievous grin.

Gerry nods cautiously and smiles in return. The man chuckles and turns around, waving along as he walks into an adjacent room. “Of course, of course, come along.”

The room Gerry finds himself in feels a lot more luxurious than the previous one had. The floor is still the same stained concrete, but the lights are dim, only an old oil lamp illuminating two plump armchairs either side of a low glass coffee table. There’s a gun on the table, and Gerry’s hand flits to one of his many knives when he sees it, checking that it’s still there, before forcing himself to relax. Likely it’s only there in case Gerry makes a move first, so he pins his arms down to his sides, not wanting to look suspicious.

This room isn’t as large, and the artefacts and trinkets that line the walls are smaller, and infinitely more precious. They’re lit by their own small LEDs, bathing them in bright white where they sit snug on red velvet. There’s a separate ornate box sitting on a pedestal against the opposite wall. Unlike the others, this is shrouded in darkness, and Gerry can hardly make out the intricate carvings flowing across the wood. He’s seated in the chair facing the box, and he can hardly draw his eyes away from it as Hoàng speaks.

“So, Mr. Robinson, you are here for the book. Tell me why,” he folds his hands in his lap and the impish smile never fades.

“I need to keep it away from the public.” Gerry leaves out the part where he’s going to destroy it to achieve that goal. He doesn’t know how well that would go over.

He raises an eyebrow, “Am I not already doing that?” he gestures grandly to the box behind him.

“Perhaps right now you are, but… it is on sale to anyone, right?” Gerry asks.

Hoàng makes a considering face and nods slowly, “I guess you are right. I am a business man, it is what I do. What other reason should I make this deal?”

“I have money,” Gerry says simply, tapping the briefcase. “But before we get to that… do you know anything about the other five of Sawyer’s books? Who they were sold to or where?”

He shakes his head. “Only one book each. Completely anonymous. Those were the rules of the auction. I do not know anything of the others, though I would like to.”

Gerry sighs. “Do you know why it was only one book each?”

“I do not… _know_. But I got the feeling that whoever wanted them sold, wanted them sold far. Spread across every country. Create… chaos. Put people against each other. Foster hate.” He nods sagely.

“What- may I ask- what is this business you have here?” Gerry gestures vaguely to the space they’re in. If Gerry gets out of this seven-book long adventure, he’ll definitely be coming back here on the Institute’s dime. No way all this stuff is safe.

“I buy rare items. I sell rare items. For profit,” that knowing smirk is back. “I own it with my brother. We are very successful. Also… very hated.”

Gerry chuckles shortly, “Hence the bouncer.”

“Yes. And those men,” Hoàng says, pointing beyond Gerry.

He shifts around quickly in his chair, unaware of the silent presence behind him. There are two men standing still beside the door Gerry had entered through. They’re wearing the same plain black uniform and neutral expressions as the bouncer outside. Gerry hadn’t notice them come in.

He turns back around and Hoàng is beaming cheekily. “So. Price.”

Gerry swallows and nods, putting thought of the guards out of his mind. “What do you want for it?”

“I want profit. I paid ten thousand European pounds. Make me an offer.” He rotates his hand in an impatient circle, clearly wanting this transaction to get under way.

“Fifteen thousand,” Gerry says.

“Done.”

Gerry allows himself a wide smirk as the man gets up to gather the ornate box into his arms and bring it back to the table. This was so easy! Almost as if everyone else had just given up. If the rest of these books can go the same way, Gerry’s in for a breezy few months. 

The box is cold to the touch, decorated with intricate swirls and spirals. On closer inspection Gerry sees that they’re actually tentacles, squirming and gripping along the edge of the box. So expertly detailed they almost look like they’re moving. Hoàng gestures eagerly, telling him to open it. Gerry does, anticipation grinding heavy in his gut. He lifts the lid slowly, relishing the feel of the cool wood against his skin, wanting to remember this moment forever. The box is empty. Gerry looks up at the Vietnamese man with a scowl.

“What? Something wrong?” the man frowns in return and leans forward to peer into the box. “Oh. My brother must have sold it this morning. I have only been on shift for one hour.”

Gerry grinds his teeth together to distract himself from the thought of attacking this man. He runs a hand through his hair and feels like he’s about to cry with frustration. He looks back into the box, just to make sure that the book is really gone, and it is. The box is really, truly empty. Except…

At the bottom is a piece of card paper. A postcard, almost obscured by the deep shadow of the box. He lifts it out. The design on the front is of a beautiful view of a city at night, lights sparkling against a clear sky and streets alive with activity. Bold yellow script across the bottom reads, _Barcelona!_

Turning it over reveals a short message jotted down in neat black handwriting. It reads: 

_Oh no! The book’s gone! :(  
Who could have taken it?  
I think you know ;)   
See you next time, Gerry Delano_

Gerry breathes a rush of air out of his nose, jaw much too tight to do anything else, and he’s vaguely surprised that what comes out isn’t smoke. He stands abruptly and swipes up his briefcase, stalking toward the door.

He notices a bit of a smirk on one of the guards’ face and fails to talk himself out of sending a fist flying his way. It connects with his jaw and the man stumbles over. The pain exploding from his knuckles does little to make Gerry feel better, and the little difference it did make is obliterated by the sound of a gun cocking beside his ear.

“That is not acceptable behaviour,” the second guard says.

Gerry holds his hands up and lets his head slump forward, defeated, “I’ll leave, don’t worry.”

“I will escort you to the street,” the guard explains.

Gerry is walked swiftly out of the store and deposited at the edge of the side street, where he continues to fume silently. Why had he let himself get so complacent? There was absolutely no reason why him being first to the last one would have any bearing on what happened here. God, he’s so _stupid_.

Fucking Michael Shelley. That’s the only person it could have been. No one else he had met in Barcelona had spoken English. _Fuck_. He should have killed him, he should have- No. Gerry isn’t going to kill anyone here. He can’t afford to; therapy is really expensive.

He tries to calm himself down by grabbing some take-out from the nearest food place he can find. He eats angrily in his hotel room and tries not to think about that stupid sexy blond who stole his book while he watches Vietnamese TV that he doesn’t understand.

He calls Gertrude as soon as he’s gotten somewhat of a handle on his anger.

“How’d it go this time?” Gertrude asks as soon as the call connects.

“Fucking terrible, Gertrude, I didn’t get the book,” he stabs angrily at some noodles with his chopsticks.

“Okay. Are you hurt?” She asks slowly. Gertrude is no stranger to Gerry’s temper, and will avoid it if at all possible.

“No, if you aren’t counting my pride. Gertrude how could I have let this happen? I’m so stupid,” he growls as a bite of bean sprouts slips from between the chopsticks.

“This is not your fault, Gerard, you needn’t be so harsh on yourself. Now, do you know who has the book?”

“Michael Shelley, I think. Do you know what he did, Gertrude? The book was being sold by a semi-legit business, and when I got there I thought I had beat the crowd but when they got the book box out, it was fucking empty, because he _bought_ it and do you know what he did? He fucking left a note! To taunt me! It had my fucking name on it!” Gerry fumes.

Gertrude sounds slightly amused as she asks, “How do you know it was him?”

“The note was a postcard from Barcelona. Gertrude, he sucks _so_ much, I should’ve- should’ve, fuck, I don’t know. I just don’t understand how I’ve never heard of him before; he’s clearly got resources in and out of London.” He rubs his temple, trying to fight off the headache he feels creeping in at the edges.

“Hm, yes,” Gertrude doesn’t sound any less amused, “I’ll look into it a little further for you. I’m going to be honest, if this is Phillip Mordecai’s boy, I’m going to be quite impressed. I wouldn’t think anyone close to him would actually be so accomplished.”

“Gertrude you aren’t making me feel any better. Say something useful or I’m hanging up.”

She sighs, and if Gerry wasn’t so worked up, he would have recognised the sound as fond, “Gerard, you are good at what you do. Just because someone else is also good at it does not mean you are suddenly bad at it. Now, it is true that this task is particularly important, but there’s always going to be Leitners around, causing trouble. Even if you lose the next five, we can always find them again.”

Gerry’s head droops as he listens to her reasoning. “I just… I don’t want to lose to this guy. He’s terrible and I hate him. Just cos he’s cute doesn’t mean he can just do whatever the fuck he wants, fucking putting winky faces in that note and shit. He’s infuriating.” 

Gertrude chuckles and Gerry blushes as he realises what he’d just said. “I think you need to take a nap. When’s the last time you slept?”

“Not a chance Gertrude. Once I’m finished eating, I’m going directly to the airport and I’m going to live there until you send me the next location, then I’m gone.”

She sighs again, “Okay. I’ll send it over as soon as I get word.”

*

_90 minutes earlier:_

“Thanks so much,” Michael says in Vietnamese, smiling bright and taking the book carefully in hand and stowing it away in his backpack. “Would you make sure that note stays in until the next person comes in?”

Kim Hoàng grins broadly at him and nods.

“Thank you,” Michael says as he leaves the store. 

Feeling smug, Michael tosses a wink at the bouncer outside as he makes his way back to the hotel. Once he’s back in his room, he closes the door behind him and leans against it. What a day. No fight. No Gerry. Leitner secured. Now for a well-deserved nap.

He shrugs his bag off his shoulders and places it down beside his bed. He starts to toe his boots off before noticing that the bottom of his leg is soaking. He looks at it quizzically. It hadn’t been raining. There were no puddles on the street. It’s then that he notices a small puddle growing beneath his bag on the floor. He picks it up to investigate, and his hands come away slimy from the bottom of the bag. As he inspects it, the fabric starts dripping faster, and faster, until a steady stream of foul-smelling water is flowing from the bag.

“Oh, fuck,” Michael mumbles. He doesn’t remember bringing a water bottle with him today. He opens his bag and pulls out the book, and the bottom half of his shirt sleeve is immediately soaked. “Of course.”

He tosses his bag to the side and examines the book. He had only looked at it very briefly in the store, giddy about getting to it first and leaving that self-gratifying note in its place. It’s an old collection of H.P. Lovecraft’s short stories, simply titled _Cthulhu_. He flips it open and something bursts from between the pages, slapping, wet and writhing, in Michael’s face. 

He drops the book in shock and disgust and watches as thick black tentacles surge from the book, water puddling out for the wriggling things to splash through. They grow bigger by the second, until they’re bubbling out of the book almost as tall as Michael. Michael lunges for his bag, intending to grab a knife when a thin tendril wraps around his ankle and pulls. He slips into the growing puddle and is instantly soaked. He stretches, and his middle finger just catches the open zipper of the bag. 

He yanks it toward him and fishes out a knife, lamenting the lack of anything bigger. He sits up clumsily as more and more thick tentacles pour into the room, slamming against the walls and writhing across the clean sheets of his bed. He hacks at the tendril climbing up his leg, and a terrible shriek emanates from the book.

Cringing, Michael slashes faster until finally a length of it severs. As soon as the blade passes through completely, the section winding up his leg dissipates in a puff of green-black smoke. The shrieking continues, as the tentacles lengthen and expand and thud against the ceiling. The light from the windows is blotted out by thick black tendrils and the cracking of wood echoes around the room as the bed shudders under the pressure. Eventually the bed just splinters in half like a boat on the high seas. Michael thanks his past self for having the foresight to use an alias when he checked in, the bill’s going to be huge.

He stands up and moves cautiously toward the book, hacking at any tendrils that near him. The screaming only gets worse as he stabs and slashes his way to the centre. Two particularly thick strands wrap around both of his legs at once and he’s lifted into the air and wheeled around, arms flailing. He’s swung past a post of the bed and he grabs hold of it, fingers slipping for just a moment before he can start to draw himself closer to the book. Michael feels like he’s playing tug-of-war with his own body until finally he claws himself close enough to plunge the dagger into the book’s centre.

The squeal that explodes from it is ear-splitting and when Michael is dropped to the floor, he instantly curls up in order to clamp his hands over his ears. After a moment of earth-shattering cacophony the room is silent. Hesitantly, Michael lowers his hands and looks up. The room is empty of tentacles and the knife is still sticking out of the book. The carpet is dry, but Michael is still wet and slimy, and the bed is still very broken.

He pushes his dripping hair out of his face and rubs the water out of his eyes. God, it smells so bad. He sloshes over to the book and examines it. The pages are dry and brittle, no water in sight, except for that streaming off Michael’s skin. He gives it a few more good stabs before feeling comfortable enough to pick it up and take it into the bathroom. 

He tosses it into the tub and empties an entire bottle of fire starter over it before striking a match and watching it burn. He opens a window before the fire alarm has a chance to catch a whiff of what’s going on. He sits on the edge of the bath and watches it crackle and curl for a while. For a moment he’s almost completely humbled, then he remembers what he’d done today and a smile tugs at the edges of his mouth.

Sure, leaving that postcard had been a bit of a dick move, and next time he sees Gerry, if he does, he’ll probably be mad enough to kill him properly this time. Michael doesn’t understand why Gerry let him live. Was Michael not a deadly enough opponent? Was killing Michael not even worth his time? Or did he simply not want to kill him?

When Michael had woken not long after he had passed out, he had been surprised. The moment he saw that briefcase rushing toward his head Michael had all but accepted that that was the last thing he’d ever see. So to wake up in a room full of glass with another unconscious man, his boots and all his money gone, was relieving as much as it was infuriating.

He looks down at the shoes he’s wearing now. Back up boots, all scuffed and worn in, soles so thin you could probably see through them. Michael had just bought those other ones. As far as he’s concerned, he thinks taunting him over getting this second Leitner is only a sliver of what Gerry deserves. Who even does that? Take another man’s shoes? What a little shit! 

After Michael had regained his bearings, he had made a hasty exit, not keen on getting caught in the sirens wheeling fast toward the campus. With no book in hand, he had gone limping back to his hotel room to treat his wounds.

Speaking of… Michael gingerly lifts up his pant leg to find an array of sucker marks in his skin. That’s just fucking great. He touches one and it stings sharp against the contact, a bright bloody purple. With the book in ashes, he cautiously begins to peel off his sopping wet clothes. He looks at himself in the mirror and winces at the sight of himself.

The gunshot wound is healed over in a thick scab that Michael resolutely does not pick at. He’s glad today didn’t result in a fight. There’s no way he would’ve gotten out without opening this up again. There’s a yellowing bruise across his cheek from where Gerry had slammed his face into the floor and another, a dark angry purple, curling out from his temple into his hairline. It still hurts when he frowns. He turns around and examines the massive green patch on his lower back.

Michael’s surprised he survived, let alone escaped becoming a paraplegic. It’s a miracle that blow didn’t take out a disc or three. If that didn’t do it, Gerry sitting on him after definitely should have. There are various other bruises littered across his limbs and torso that Michael doesn’t have time to think about as he steps into the shower. He’s sure more will crop up when he wakes tomorrow morning.

Once he’s washed all the brackish water off of him and cleaned the sucker wounds he steps rigidly into a pair of sweats and an old t shirt. If his pride at today’s accomplishments hadn’t already been smashed, they definitely are when he steps out to see the broken bed. He sits on it cautiously and it cracks further under his weight. He decides to cut out the middle man and drag out the mattress into an empty floor space before flopping down on it, fishing through his miraculously dry bag for his phone.

He scowls as he remembers having woken up with his old one broken on his chest. Fucking Gerry. The burner phone he bought in place of it has only Phillip’s contact on it, so it’s basically the same anyway.

“Hey Dad,” Michael says in greeting.

“Michael! I haven’t heard from you properly since you were in England. Tell me what’s going on.” Phillip’s voice is only very slightly relieved, but Michael takes it as a sign of affection anyway.

“Yeah, I’m sorry. My phone got, ah, broken when I was going for the book, then I had to call you on a payphone, I didn’t have time to chat before getting here. I’ve got a burner one now, so if you get an international call from now on, that’s me, hah.”

“So you got the book? Both of them?”

Michael blanches at the question and makes a split-second decision that he’s sure he’ll regret later. “Yeah, I got ‘em. Both of them.”

There’s a relieved sigh on the other end. “Good, good. That’s a good job, Michael. You know how important this is.”

Michael allows himself a smile, even if it’s falsely earned, “Yeah, I know. It’s not safe, with these books out there.”

“That’s right. Anything else?” His voice is growing distant already, distracted, and Michael’s smile fades quickly.

“Uh, yes, a couple things actually,” He glances toward the shattered bed frame. “I’m going to need more money. I know we weren’t expecting to be buying many of these, but we got lucky this time, and I’m kind of out of cash.” He doesn’t mention the worst goth ever robbing him while he’d been unconscious.

“Okay, well, uh, I’ll wire some over. And I’ll text you the next location ASAP. Is that all?” He’s becoming impatient now, and Michael tries one last thing to keep his attention.

“I ran into Gerard Keay.”

There’s a long pause before Phillip speaks. “What happened?” It’s more of a demand than a question.

“He knocked me out, didn’t kill me,” Michael says.

“He would have, Michael. Trust me. Something must have distracted him. He’s plain evil, boy, it’s a miracle your alive.” His tone is almost frantic.

“I don’t know, Dad, there were multiple guns and knives in the room that he could’ve used,” Michael says. He plays his inflection as sceptical, just to see what kind of response he’d get.

The response is irrefutably angry, “Then he must have done it to fuck with you, Michael. Like a cat playing with a mouse. He kills when he wants, no questions. You have to know this. You must kill him.” Michael’s almost sure for a moment that Phillip must know about Gerry’s intense sex appeal and is trying to counteract it by being so over-the-top about how evil he is. 

“Okay, Dad. I will,” he puts a little iron into his voice to convince him and waits for him to hang up. He doesn’t.

“Hold on, Michael. You said he knocked you out. What was stopping him from taking the book then?” Hurtfully suspicious.

“I’d already burnt it,” Michael lies, feeling defeated despite the days success, pinching the bridge of his nose, “Didn’t want to give anyone the chance to jump me for it if I went somewhere else to destroy it. Why, don’t you trust me?” He finishes with a jovial tone. 

“Mm. Okay. That’s good then. I’ll talk to you later, Michael,” he says. A weight sinks deep into Michael’s stomach as he waits for the beep of Phillip hanging up. Does Phillip not trust him to carry this out? He would be right to; Michael’s only destroyed one book, lost most of his cash, then lied about all of it. Phillip would be right to be so suspicious. Somehow the blatant confirmation of it still hurts. 

He grips the phone tight, staring blankly at the contact screen before ditching it across the room and burying his face in his hands. “I love you, Michael. I’m proud of you, Michael,” he says mockingly to himself. “Keep fucking dreaming.”

He digs his fingers into his watery eyes and groans. He’s so confused. Why hadn’t Gerry killed him? Phillip is so positive of his evil ways. Surely, he can’t be wrong about something he says with such conviction. 

Well, he thinks, if Gerry is evil, then their next encounter will certainly continue until Michael is dead or Gerry is sufficiently subdued. Michael cannot kill. But he can fight.

He has to win the next book. When Phillip inevitably finds out he lied about the first one, maybe the punishment won’t be as bad if he just gets all the others. He needs to turn this into a winning streak, or else his life will be on the line, and not just because of some evil books or probably-not-murderous goth.

He pushes his thoughts aside and starts strategizing. What does he know about Gerry? Lots of upper body strength. Don’t get distracted by his arms is the first thing to remember. He’s a dirty fighter. He’d swung at Michael a couple times with that case before he’d finally got him with it. Michael’s willing to bet he’ll use whatever he can find as a weapon.

He can take a punch. The foreign man he had fought with seemed to rely a little too much on his gun, but when he was down to fists alone, he got in a couple solid hits. Gerry had just popped right back up. He recovers very quickly. Michael may not be the most powerful person, but he knows his kicks pack a wallop, and Gerry had taken them like a champ. Michael’s going to have to chip away at him slowly.

What else?

He fights like his life depends on it. Nothing is off limits. He will pull your hair. He _did_ pull Michael’s hair. It had fucking hurt. In the short time Michael had observed him he’s already noticed a few key tricks he likes to pull. Namely sitting on his opponent and slamming their head into the ground. Michael hypothesizes that if he can just stay on his feet, he’ll keep the advantage.

Michael knows he’s a better fighter than Gerry. He knows it. He may have the strength advantage, but Michael is smarter. He has the size and speed. Used correctly, that’s all he’ll need to beat Gerry. And he will. If Gerry wants to fight dirty, Michael will throw out the rule book. Whatever he has to do… he will beat Gerard Keay.

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Im so excited for the next chapter its gonna be good i can feel it!!!  
> thanks for all the love so far guys and as always pls feel free to leave kudos and comment or yell at me over on that hellsite we call home @theroswellcrashsite


	4. BOOK 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Genoa, Italy. Hey, that name sounds familiar...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is sponsored by Italian airports. Italy has airports wherever you need so that the mechanics of your fanfiction make sense.
> 
> Y'all... this is my favorite chapter so far. pls enjoy :)

**GENOA, Italy**

“Sir, I need you to make a choice, you’re holding up the line,” the attendant says.

“Just a second. Please, I just need one more second.” 

Gertrude’s typing bubble bobs infuriatingly on his phone screen. The previous text reads **Here’s the next location:**

“Come on, come on,” Gerry whispers, urging Gertrude on mentally. Curse her old person fingers.

_Ding!_

**Genoa, Italy. Address to follow.**

“Genoa!” Gerry shouts, and the man jumps. “Genoa, Italy. Please.”

The attendant purses his lips and lowers his eyes to his screen, tapping at the keyboard. His eyebrows rise slowly up his forehead as he says in a falsely cheerful tone, “You’re in luck, there’s a flight leaving in an hour with a few open seats. Would you like an aisle seat o-.”

“Yes, aisle, please. Thanks.” It’s been so long since Gerry wasn’t crammed uncomfortably been two strangers. Thank god for ticket cancellations.

He gets his ticket and thanks the attendant, who smiles tiredly at him, and continues on to the security gates. The flight is the best he’s had so far. There are no children, no snoring people, no distractions whatsoever. He marks out the route he’ll take to the location and settles down to take a nap, drifting off to a daydream of kicking Michael’s ass. He wakes up when the plane lands and stretches leisurely. This is going to be his day; he can feel it.

When he steps onto Italian soil, the day is mild and sunny, with a meandering breeze wafting in from the coast. He slings his bag over his shoulders and marches out to the nearest train station, bypassing baggage claim completely. The train ride is swift, and the anticipation quickly starts to boil in his gut. There is no way Michael could get there before him, absolutely no way. He’s got this in the bag. And if Michael does show up: Gerry can take him.

His leg starts to bounce the nearer to the location he gets. He checks the map once again before tucking it away. The looks he’s drawing from other passengers vary from concerned to suspicious. He glances down at what he’s wearing: plane sweats, black t-shirt, leather jacket. He knows he looks like garbage; he’d checked in the mirror before his flight. His make-up is smudged, and his hair is a greasy mess but if Gerry can come out on top looking like this, there’s nothing he can’t do.

The train announces his stop and a fresh rush of butterflies cascade through his gut. The doors slide open and Gerry shoulders through the crowd before sprinting full speed for the building. 

The city is really beautiful. Houses all painted welcoming shades of yellow and red, streets paved with rough stone, and the sun shining benevolently on the whole scene. Gerry is momentarily distracted from it by a large shape barrelling into him from between two buildings. Christ, things can never go smoothly for him, can they?

Gerry lets out a surprised shout as he’s thrown to the ground. He rolls over, expecting to see long legs and blond curls. Instead he gets five and a half feet of Italian muscle about to drop an elbow into his gut. He rolls out of the way and stumbles to his feet in time to see the man’s arm drive painfully into the ground. He yelps and Gerry gets his own arm around the man’s throat, hauling him up to his feet. The man flails, hands grasping, trying to gain any sort of purchase on Gerry.

He shouts in Italian and tries to throw his body around to dislodge Gerry, all while rapidly running out of breath. Finally he slumps, unconscious, tipping backward. Gerry staggers under the sudden weight and drags the man into the alley that he had come from. That was a huge waste of time, Gerry thinks, but at least now he’s got one of the local hires out of the game.

Somewhere along the way Gerry realises the anticipation he’s been feeling isn’t for getting his hands on a powerful, evil book and destroying it for the betterment of the community. It’s to fight Michael. Of course his goal is still to not kill anyone, and he’s fairly sure he won’t be able to kill Michael anyway, but the nerves rolling around in his belly are about seeing his nemesis again. More than anything, he’s just really keen to have a good fight. 

Gertrude hadn’t been able to find any useful information, except some adoption records from about fifteen years ago for one Michael Shelley. It looks as if the rumours about Mordecai’s little army were true, except that it consisted of only one young boy who had lost his parents in a car crash at age three. Gerry had wondered for a moment, when Gertrude told him this, how Michael would have turned out had his parents survived. Had he never met Phillip Mordecai. There’s no use dwelling on should’ves and could’ves, though, so Gerry hadn’t thought on it for long.

She wasn’t able to find anything on what they do with the books, either. But knowing his mother, Gerry is positive that anyone who’d been associated with her can’t be using them for good. Gerry is forced to assume that there is no good outcome of Michael getting his grubby hands on these books.

It’s not as if there’s an abundance of people in the book burning business anyway. Gerry had only ever met one other person with as big a vendetta against Leitner as him and that was Gertrude herself. If there are other people who don’t sell the books for profit, Gerry’s never met them.

He continues on his way to the location and finds himself in a residential area. The buildings are shorter here, but wider. They almost fill the meagre properties, leaving room only for a small garden. He slows to a jog and starts paying attention to the addresses as the buildings start billowing outward and upward, becoming more impressive. Finally, he stops in front of an awfully expensive home, with tall iron gates blocking the driveway and a stone wall about a foot taller than Gerry following the perimeter of the property. There are no cars in the driveway and no lights on in the house.

He traces it along the edge and finally comes to the back of the place, where thick vines grow over the stone and there’s nothing to see beyond the wall save for a verdant garden. He tugs on the vines and they don’t give, even when he falls back and lets them support his whole weight. He clambers gracelessly over the wall and stamps through the tall grass until he can duck under a window. 

Gerry takes his time surveying the house, looking for an entry point. The windows are all large and arched. Also locked. There’s a door leading directly into the house, but he doesn’t want to go directly into the main building, especially if there’s anyone around. Taking out people after the book is one thing, killing a civilian is entirely another. He darts around the side of the building and sees two large planks set at a low angle into the side of the building. A cellar door.

Gerry glances around quickly. The stone perimeter isn’t low enough to see over from the street, and adjacent houses are far enough away that any second storey windows don’t have a vantage point either. The houses own windows are curtained and dark. Gerry rushes over to the cellar and finds it blessedly unlocked. He tugs it open and descends the steps slowly, moving in a crouch.

Inside is a wide space. Dusty floor, and high ceilings. On one side of the room is a row of barrels, as tall as Gerry and just as wide. The wood looks old and stained. There’s no telling how old the contents of them might be. The other side hosts a wall-length wine rack, completely full of bottles. There’s a single bare bulb hanging from the centre of the room, and a semi-circle of wooden folding chairs is set up below it. He steps down onto the cold stone floor, and the bright rays of sun streaming from the open hatch does little to dispel the chill of the space. 

Across from Gerry is another set of stairs, leading to another door which is mercifully closed. The room is entirely empty of people, but the circle of chairs makes Gerry nervous. It looks set up for some kind of meeting. He moves closer and finds they’re all facing a table, which sports a number of wine bottles. Must be some sort of rich people wine-tasting event.

Gerry moves around and sighs, annoyed, when he finds nothing of interest. He’s really going to have to go into the main building. As he moves to the door, something catches his eye, tucked away behind one of the barrels.

He peers around and finds a small brown chest, shoved unceremoniously out of the way. He drags it out to where he can see and examines it closely. It’s a simple chest, with only a small lock holding the lid closed. He fetches his preferred knife from his belt and flips it around before bringing it down on the lock as hard as he can. The lock is fairly new and holds fast. He swings the knife down once, twice more, and finally it snaps off with an audible crunch.

Gerry lifts the lid off and sure enough, inside is a book. He peers at it in the low light and the title reads, _World Atlas of Wine_. Seems appropriate, Gerry thinks. Just as he’s about to reach in, he hears a pop behind him. 

When he turns around, he only sees Michael for a second before he’s suddenly out of sight and Gerry is on the floor, knife spinning away and disappearing under a barrel. Michael had swept his legs out from under him and Gerry doesn’t have any time to struggle to a sitting position before Michael is pinning him down by the throat with his foot. Gerry flails for a short moment as panic overtakes his brain. He forces that down and instead brings his legs up to try and kick at Michael’s knees.

Michael is wearing a plain white T-shirt, tucked into a pair of dark slacks. His hair is pulled back into a respectable bun, but still a few strays curl up around his ears. If Gerry can just get free, he’s gonna fuck Michael up so bad, he’ll never get the stains out of that shirt.

The blond bends down, seemingly unperturbed by the man struggling under his foot, and goes to pick up the book. Gerry claws at his leg mercilessly, noticing Michael wince slightly. He tugs Michael’s pant leg up and finds a number of bandages. Gerry allows himself to feel the slightest bit smug that Michael didn’t get out of the second book unscathed and digs his fingers in.

“Fuck!” Michael gasps, gripping the edge of the chest and grinding his foot down harder against Gerry’s throat. He chokes as his air supply is completely cut off. He can feel his blood thumping through his veins, caught against Michael’s shoes and swelling in his neck. Michael picks up the book, and Gerry watches, still desperately trying to kick his knee out, legs too short, as Michael’s face warps into a frown. He sways above Gerry, and stumbles away, as if his sense of balance had suddenly left him.

Gerry gasps, lungs finally filling with air. He coughs raggedly and watches as Michael falls over on his ass, looking dazed. The book tumbles from his loose grasp. He lifts his hands, looking at them quizzically, and rubs his temple. Gerry squints at him. The book must have some kind of weird effect on those who touch it. Gerry doesn’t allow that to stop him as he dives for it, scooping the atlas into his arms and standing up, sprinting out the door from where he came. 

Except he isn’t. He isn’t doing any of that. Sure, he gets the book in his hands, but after that he can’t quite tell what’s happening. The ground moves and jives under him until he loses his balance, just like Michael had. He feels like he’s on a boat, or drunk. Yeah… that’s what it is; he feels absolutely, hellishly intoxicated. He blinks his eyes into focus, and locates the outside entrance, his vision lagging, nauseating, disorienting. He gets to his feet very slowly, making sure both of them are on the ground before he tries to move again. The exit is right there, he’s just gotta put his feet one in front of the other and- oh, Michael’s in front of him.

There’s a blur of movement that Gerry’s eyes simply can’t follow, a burst of pain sparks in his hands, and he no longer has the book. His vision begins to clear very slowly, and he blinks rapidly to try and speed up the process as the nauseous delirium fades. When his eyes clear of the murk the first thing he sees is Michael, body twisting, swinging around, leg coming up, heel of his boot driving directly into Gerry’s ear. 

Gerry feels his neck crack, and a jolt of fear zings down his spine at the idea of _oh fuck, I’m paralysed now_. The fear lasts only a moment after he hits the ground and his limbs come up instinctively to lever himself back into fighting shape. He doesn’t have time to be impressed that Michael had literally just kicked him in the face, before he notices the other man heading for the book.

Gerry skitters to his feet and starts at an unsteady run at Michael. “Not so fast, Goldilocks,” he growls, launching himself up onto his back, locking his legs around his waist and bringing an arm around his throat. Michael is just straightening up when Gerry latches on, having picked the book off the ground. Immediately he starts to stagger.

“Drop the book!” Gerry says, both because the book is _his_ and also because Gerry doesn’t want to get crushed if Michael falls over again. Michael does. He steadies and Gerry breathes a sigh of relief just as he starts to cut of Michael’s air flow.

The blond is gripping at Gerry’s arms, more trying to pull them away than digging in. Gerry takes a moment to be confused about the action before Michael is suddenly moving backward at an alarming speed. He gains quite a bit of momentum, and Gerry holds on for dear life before he’s being slammed against a stone wall. All the wind is knocked out of him, making Gerry feel like a fucking bagpipe as he wheezes out a feeble complaint. He would slump to the floor then if Michael wasn’t holding him up.

Gerry has a split second to bring an arm up to block Michael’s incoming blow. The hit glances off his ear. Gerry feels just a bit smug before it’s punched out of him, Michael driving a fist into his gut. That nausea is back, and he doubles over before Michael takes him into his own chokehold.

God, he’s going to have the worst bruise when he wakes up tomorrow, Gerry thinks. Gerry can feel Michael’s body, warm and solid behind him, and his breath hot in his ear. A few blond curls tickle the nape of Gerry’s neck. He struggles hard, both physically and mentally, feet thrashing against the ground, because Michael is so close and _so_ attractive. Or maybe that’s just the lack of oxygen muddying his brain.

Gerry growls and thrashes, hammering his legs behind him, hoping to land a blow to Michael’s knees, but Christ they’re so high up, and Gerry is so much shorter. He’s been clawing at Michael’s arm for at least forty-five seconds when he gets an idea. He reaches up and behind him, hand slapping around until he finds Michael’s face, eyebrow, ear, hair, there we go. He grips a handful and yanks.

“Ah, shit!” Michael says, arms loosening just the slightest. It’s enough, and Gerry muscles his way out of them, turning quickly to tackle Michael to the ground. There’s a look of panic flashing through Michael’s eyes and Gerry takes the feeling of triumph and stows it away for later; he hasn’t won yet. “No, _god_ …” Gerry thinks he hears Michael say as he crawls up to sit across his waist. It isn’t an easy feat; the blond is thrashing about like a fish out of water. He just won’t stay still.

He shoves at Gerry’s face so that Gerry can’t actually see what he’s doing, which is trying to strangle Michael. “Stop… fucking… moving,” Gerry grunts out, slapping Michael’s hands away. They just keep coming back. And he’s still going with that incessant wriggling.

“Fuck you!” Michael gasps out, teeth clenched, sweat beading thick across his brow. He must be getting tired, but he’s not stopping. Gerry is almost impressed by his tenacity, and he himself is getting a little winded, just trying to get his hands around Michael’s neck. The cellar had been cold when Gerry had first entered, but it’s heating up quickly with Michael’s hot breath in his face. 

Gerry, momentarily distracted, is caught off guard by a fist sailing into his nose. “Shit!” He swears, hand coming up to hold his face. His hand comes away red and he sniffs, feeling a steady stream dripping over his lips. Fuck, he thinks, if Michael keeps struggling like this, Gerry’s going to have to abandon his go-to manoeuvre. 

He doubles down, wiping his hand clean on Michael’s shirt and catching one of his wrists where it’s still flailing at Gerry’s face, pinning it to the floor above his head. Michael’s twisting doubles in response to this, and Gerry actually starts to feel a little bad, a bit guilty, when he sees the slight glisten of tears in his eyes. The feeling doesn’t last long, however, because Michael is fisting his free hand in Gerry’s shirt, hauling him down and fastening his teeth into the bridge of Gerry’s nose.

“Ow! Jesus, fuck, fuckfuckfuck, let go!” he yells, releasing Michael’s hand and swatting at his face, desperate to get this fucker off him. Michael lets go, and the sound as he does is a disgusting, audible squelch. Gerry rolls off of him, clutching at his nose, now bleeding from several new holes. He casts around him and finds that he’s right near the wall opposite the barrels, full of bottles of wine. He takes one by the neck and swings it down toward Michael, who rolls out of the way just in time.

Gerry drags himself up to standing the same time as Michael, grabbing another bottle, and hurling it at him. He skips out of the way and the bottle smashes against the dusty stone floor, red bleeding out beneath the shards. He grabs another bottle.

Michael is making a face like he just ate something really unappetising, and spits at the ground. The lower half of his face is covered in Gerry’s blood. “If I taste so bad, you shouldn’t’ve fucking bitten me,” Gerry sasses.

“You’re a fucking dick, Keay,” Michael says, spitting again, “And you look ridiculous.”

Gerry looks down at his plane sweats and shrugs, not finding it in him to be embarrassed, “Well we can’t all always be so sexy and put together all the time.”

Michael looks up from where he’s wiping his face off onto his white shirt and a blush rises up to his cheeks. 

Gerry clamps his mouth shut, realising what had just come out of his mouth. You can’t just go around, telling the enemy that they’re sexy, Gerry, Jesus Christ. Annoyed at himself, he ditches the wine he’s holding, not really aiming at Michael, just watching it smash against the floor.

Michael laughs, amused at Gerry’s frustration, and walks a line parallel to the wall. What is he doing? The book lies in the opposite direction. Neither man really wants to be picking that thing up, though. Not yet. Michael approaches the semi-circle of chairs, miraculously untouched through the fight. He picks one up so that it folds flat, hoisting it over his shoulder like a bat.

“Come at me, Gerry. You wanna play dirty, I’ll do it, love,” Michael wipes at the side of his mouth, and spits another glob of pale red onto the floor. 

“You’re the one who bit me!” Gerry says, but circles around to the opposite side of the chairs anyway, picking up his own.

Michael frowns and shakes his head a little, like he’s legitimately confused by Gerry’s reasoning. “You stole all my money. You stole my favourite boots. Pulled my hair. Twice. Sat on me. _Twice_. Biting is the least you deserve.”

“Oh, don’t pretend like you didn’t love it,” Gerry spits, and gives Michael a moment to process his words and start blushing before he charges with a heavy swing to Michael’s head. Michael dodges it easily and steps sideways, waiting for Gerry’s momentum to bring him barrelling past so he can drive his chair into Gerry’s side. “Fuck,” he says, stumbling as the chair splinters apart against him. It was a strong blow, but a weak chair, and he stays on his feet.

Gerry feigns injury for a moment before bringing his chair around into Michael’s leg, pivoting so the side of it catches him in the shin, the one Gerry knows is injured. He’s been making a mistake in going for Michael’s head so many times. He needs to accept that it’s just too far out of reach. Michael staggers under the blow, and Gerry follows it up with another side swing into his ribs, which Michael catches.

He takes a hold of the chair and yanks it out of Gerry’s grip. Not expecting this move, Gerry goes with it, and Michael fists his hands in his shirt collar, marching him up to the wall and pressing him against it, the toe of Gerry’s boots just skimming the ground.

Michael’s face is so close to Gerry’s, close enough that they can feel each other’s breath and Gerry can see the pupils of Michael’s eyes blown wide. His forearms are pressed against Gerry’s chest, leaning his weight forward to keep him pinned to the wall, and Gerry’s own hands have come up instinctively to hang on Michael’s bloodied shirt and when did it get so hot in here? 

Michael’s lips are chapped and bloodied. Gerry thinks for a moment about what it might be like kiss him, right now. Thinks about the rush of adrenaline from the fight mixing with the need for human connection. Thinks about the hot slide of Michael’s tongue in his mouth. Thinks about how he’d probably taste his own blood on it. Thinks about how Michael’s eyes are flicking down to his own lips, thinks about how they’re definitely on the same page right now.

No. God, what is he thinking? This tall drink of water might be the prettiest thing that Gerry’s seen in years, but now is not the time! Or the place! Or even the person! Because Gerry knows this guy sells the books for his own gain. Which is bad. And Gerry legally shouldn’t be attracted to him. Even if his skin is so warm and Gerry is always so cold. No, stop it! 

Gerry pulls Michael forward, just to make sure he’s leaning all his weight on him. Michael’s eyes widen in surprise at the gesture and Gerry uses that to his advantage as he curls his legs up in the most crucial crunch of his life, plants his boots against Michael’s sternum, and _pushes_. 

Gerry drops to the floor as Michael skids away, legs unable to keep up with the speed of his movement, and he stumbles onto his ass. As he lands, he bumps into the table and the bottles atop it wobble, but don’t fall. Gerry watches, allowing himself a moment to catch his breath as Michael takes one of the bottles and uncorks it breathlessly, holding it up to his lips and tilting his head back.

He laughs incredulously. God, this guy is unreal. The pale column of his throat works as he gulps down a few mouthfuls of wine, making eye contact with Gerry the whole time. He wipes his lips and throws the bottle at the wall, just far enough away that Gerry knows he wasn’t really trying to hit him.

Fatigue quickly replacing adrenaline the longer he stays on the ground, Gerry uses the wall to get himself to his feet. He pushes his hair out of his face and gestures for Michael to stand up, “Come on, Goldilocks. Let’s get this thing done.”

Michael gets to his feet, and prepares himself for an attack, bending his knees and curling his fingers loosely, “Take a run at it, then.”

Gerry takes a moment to bounce on the spot, much too tired to care that he’s letting on how tired and unprepared he is right at this second. Then he runs. He charges at Michael, going for a low tackle. Michael remains in place until the last second, where he pivots to the side and pushes Gerry along.

The added force sends Gerry sprawling to the floor, and if he hadn’t been wearing his jacket, his shoulder would have been scraped up real nice.

Michael draws a sharp breath in through his teeth, “Ooh, that’s embarrassing.”

Gerry grunts and pulls himself up quickly. That was embarrassing, he’s right. But Gerry can’t let that stop him. “Fuck you,” he growls, shrugging off his bag and dropping it off to the side, staring Michael down.

He hoists his fists into the air around his face and approaches Michael slowly. He can’t be so hasty about this. Michael may be fast and technically a much better fighter than Gerry, but they’re about matched for stamina. If he can just go a little longer, Michael will get tired and stop… or something. God, even Gerry knows that’s a weak idea.

He gets close enough to make a move. He’s just so fucking tired, and he knows anything he’ll do here, Michael will have an answer for it. So he swings. He throws his fist out at Michael’s throat, and Michael moves. He dances out of range and pulls a leg up into himself before pumping it back out into Gerry’s chest in a powerful side kick.

Gerry can feel his ribs rattling around in his chest as he goes flying, completely winded. He gasps for air, and tears spring to his eyes unbidden when his body feels none coming in. He levers himself up and sees Michael, standing several metres away. His eyes are watchful, and they dart to Gerry’s side, before widening slightly.

Gerry follows his gaze and finds his bag beside him. It’s open and the book is beside it. There’s a moment of complete stillness, where Gerry doesn’t move, and Michael doesn’t move. It lasts only a few seconds before Gerry scoops the book into the open pocket of his bag and zips it up as he scrambles to his feet.

“No! Shit,” Michael says, and Gerry can hear his bounding footsteps approaching as he darts up the stairs that he had first come down and into the open air of an Italian mid-afternoon. He hauls the cellar door shut just as Michael catches up, and it smacks hard into Michael’s face. Gerry laughs to himself as he hears a ruckus below and lots of swearing as Michael tumbles back down the steps. He can also hear sirens; it’s time to move.

He darts over to the section of the wall he had come over, not bothering to crouch or any of that, because his presence here has definitely already been noted. He takes a running leap at the wall, adrenaline entirely renewed at the sound of sirens charging ever closer. He slips a little as the vines give beneath him, and he catches a glimpse of Michael rushing toward him across the yard.

“Shit, shit, fuck,” Gerry says against the weeds as he finally gets most of his body over. He feels his foot catch in something and knows almost instantly what’s happening. His boot comes off in Michael’s hands, and he thanks whatever gods he can think of that Michael is petty enough to do that and slow himself down enough for Gerry to get away with only one shoe. Gerry takes off at a full sprint down the street, ignoring the sharp gravel of the road digging into his socked foot.

There’s no one out on the street save for the two book hunters, and the only thing Gerry can hear under the sirens is his own breathing and Michael’s pounding footsteps behind him. Christ alive, why is Gerry so fucking slow? He urges his legs to go faster. Michael is catching up to him quick.

Gerry’s just turning a corner onto an even more deserted street, Michael so close that he can feel the shockwave of his every footfall, when the sound of a gunshot ricochets off a nearby building. “What the fuck!” Gerry exclaims, voice ragged, “You have a gun?”

“Not me,” Michael says, sounding infuriatingly unaffected by the run.

Gerry spares a glance behind him, and Michael is close enough that he could almost reach out and grab Gerry’s bag. Then suddenly he isn’t. A man had come careening out of a side street, smashing into Michael, and sending him sprawling across the road. The man has a gun.

Gerry slows a little and lets loose an incredulous laugh. What luck! Michael struggles under the weight of the man as he kneels over him, meaty hand against his throat, and the laugh dies quickly on his lips, replaced by a dawning horror, as infuriating as it is expected. Gerry has slowed almost completely to a stop when he sees the man raise the gun to point at him.

“Shit!” he curses, turning tail and running, leaving Michael to fend for himself. Obviously, because Gerry hates him, of course Gerry hadn’t been thinking of helping him.

The last thing he hears from behind him as he runs from the scene, book in bag, is a single gunshot.

*

Michael is sitting in his hotel bathroom, leaning over the sink, and picking gravel out of one side of his face and splinters out of the other. God, he had been so close to the book. Not even that, he had been so close to winning the fight. Gerry was lagging, obviously exhausted. Michael had been tired, too, but he had fought through it.

Gerry had all but phoned it in, Michael had basically won, until Michael had kicked him over to the book, practically handing it to him. What an idiot. He should’ve seen that coming. Of course he would be so close to getting his second book in a row, and fucking beef it up right at the end.

Even when they had been running, Michael had all but caught up when he was taken down. He remembers the panic that had risen in his chest at the sight of the gun and cringes as he pulls out a particularly thick splinter. What’s gnawing at Michael isn’t that he had been pinned down and basically helpless, it had been that the real fear had set in when the man had looked around and aimed the gun at Gerry.

Michael hadn’t let that distract him. He used the opportunity to drive his knee up into the man’s groin and take the gun from his loosened grasp, firing it into the side of a building until it was empty. Only one bullet. Then he smashed it into the side of the man’s head until he was unconscious. By then Gerry was long gone. He should’ve let the man shoot at him.

What was he thinking? Fearing for Gerry’s life? The man’s evil! Even if he isn’t as blood thirsty as Phillip may want Michael to believe, he still sells the books, or uses them for his own nefarious purposes. He serves the eye, and Michael cannot afford to be attracted to an avatar of any sort of fear entity, even if it isn’t one of the gross ones.

Even if it isn’t one sided… Michael had seen the way Gerry’s eyes had darkened when he pinned him against the wall. He had felt the way his breath caught when he noticed how close they were, heat gathering between them in the cold cellar. He had seen him lock his eyes intently on Michael’s mouth, hands tightening in his collar. Michael had really wanted to kiss him. No doubt it would taste strongly of blood and that thought definitely isn’t sexy, but the stirring of interest low in Michael’s gut seems to disagree.

He tells him it isn’t his fault. Gerry had honest-to-god shown up to the place in sweatpants. His hair was greasy, and his make-up looked like it hadn’t been washed or fixed since Barcelona. How the fuck could Michael actually find that attractive? He hadn’t even had his big arms on display!

He groans and drops his face into his hands. Why did he have to be such a freak? Maybe this is why Phillip doesn’t love him. Maybe he knows what a deviant Michael is, and is only keeping him around to fetch books for him. And he isn’t even doing that right! Michael forces those thoughts out of his mind when his lip begins to wobble involuntarily.

“God, Michael, you suck,” he tells himself, looking intently into the mirror. “What are you doing? Crying cos Dad doesn’t love you? Get yourself together, there are lives at stake. And you’ve only got one book. You need to get a fucking grip.”

His face is blotchy with held-back tears and blood. He’s gotten most of the gravel and splinters out of his face, he just needs to wash off Gerry’s blood from his mouth. It really does taste awful. His hair is a mess, frizzing out of its bun from the general activity of the day and where Gerry had pulled on it. He watches as a blush rises in his face, remembering the comment Gerry had made earlier. While it wasn’t true that Michael liked it when he sat on him or pulled his hair and stole his shoes, he can’t help but think about what it might be like to have Gerry on top of him under more… friendly circumstances.

“Shut _up_ ,” he growls at himself, moving away from the mirror and turning on the shower. He needs to put that shit out of his mind. Gerry is his enemy, who he _hates_ , and definitely wouldn’t care for if that man had shot him today. Michael is better than him. He won that fight today, he did. He may not have got the book, but the fight was his. Next time will be his too, and he’ll take home the prize.

*

Gerry is still in Genoa. The book is in ashes, and he’d gotten drunk the proper way, to celebrate and to drown his thoughts. Now he’s sitting in a café to recuperate, sipping at a macchiato. Gerry had almost completely forgotten to go back to the airport to collect his bags after yesterday’s fight. He’d had to come up with some excuse, and through the haze of alcohol, Gerry can hardly remember what it was. He thinks maybe he told them he has short term memory loss.

He’d texted Gertrude early this morning for the next location and she’d told him quickly that actually, there was going to be a short break in the regularly scheduled book location drops, and that he could probably afford to take a day off. This had been a welcome relief to his hangover and sore muscles. Now she’s asking after his health.

**How are you feeling?**

_Like garbage I got the book but wasn’t easy_

**Are you hurt?**

_Yes I have a fuckn massive bruise on my neck and a really obvious bite mark on my nose  
He fuckig bit me Gertrude can u believe that  
Right on the nose u can see the teeth marks  
I hope my blood tastes terrible I hope it gives him food poisoning_

**lmao  
Sounds like you had a lot of fun. **

Gerry scoffs at her use of ‘hip text-speak’ that she had insisted he teach her. He really regrets it.

_im gonna call you_

She picks up immediately, and her tone is infuriatingly amused, “Did I use the L-M-A-O wrong?”

“No, Gertrude, I’m just so tired of having to try so hard for each book. Can you please tell me that you found anything more about Shelley? I may have got the book, but he really kicked my ass back there. If I’m going to turn this into a win streak, I gotta know more about him. Assuming he’s still alive,” he mumbles tiredly, keeping his voice low to avoid drawing attention.

“No, but I did find Phillip M- Did you say still alive? Why would he not be alive?” Gertrude’s voice takes a sharp left from smug to concerned.

“Oh, you know, I left him in a side street with a hefty gunman at his throat. Didn’t see what happened but I heard a gunshot, haven’t seen either of them since,” Gerry tries his best to keep his voice neutral, but he can hear the misplaced guilt creeping in all the same.

“This is a good thing, Gerry. Michael is dead, you don’t have to worry about him anymore. Unless…?” She slows down at the sound of his intake of breath. Even Gerry is taken aback by how viscerally hearing ‘Michael is dead’ affects him. “Gerry, tell me what’s going on.”

Gerry swallows and rubs his temple, not feeling up to sharing, but not feeling like he can keep his over-sharing impulse at bay either. “I don’t know, Gertrude. I hate him, I do. I swear. But… he’s so young. I never thought- Since mum died I’ve kind of thought that if I made it to thirty I’d be lucky, but now that I see someone else my age, doing the same dangerous shit… it just seems like such a waste of a young life. If he were to die, because of me, I don’t know how I’d live with it. Even if he is a bad person.”

“Gerry…”

“Also he’s really hot, Gertrude. He’s just really, really sexy.”

She snorts out a laugh and Gerry allows himself a smile, brushing at the few tears that slip from his eyes. “Gerard. You are a good man. I know you’ve done some bad things in the past… but you’re a good boy. If something happens out there, to you or… Michael. We’ll get through it.”

Gerry bites his tongue to keep the fresh load of tears from falling. Why couldn’t he have been Gertrude’s son?

“Gerard?”

He clears his throat and says, in as steady a voice he can. “Whatever. If he’s dead now, it’s not my fault. I’m not the one who brought a gun. Anyway, as I was saying, he really handed my ass to me yesterday. He’s adapting to my style. Also did you say something about Phillip Mordecai?”

Gertrude takes a moment to sigh before accepting that Gerry’s moved on with the conversation. “I found Phillip Mordecai. I have his address, and I’m planning on paying him a visit. Try to discern what his business is with Leitners.”

“Oh, that’s good. Ask him about Michael, too. See if you can’t get anything that might give me a leg up.” Gerry takes a sip of his macchiato and stretches. There’s a woman across the room, trying to focus on her book while nodding off every now and then. There’s a slight misty film around her that’s making Gerry nervous. He squints, trying to see if it might just be a trick of the light. 

“Of course. Anything else?” Gertrude says.

“No, thanks, Gertrude. I gotta go, there’s a woman here, looks like she’s marked,” he mumbles through the goodbye pleasantries and lowers the phone. He fixes his gaze to the woman with the book and silently fumes at having yet another thing to deal with, on his one day to relax.

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> had a lot of fun writing this chapter. would love to know what yall think. thanks for reading!


	5. BOOK 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rooftop showdown.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Misunderstandings galore.
> 
> content warning for mentioned child abuse

**REYKJAVIK, Iceland**

“Yeah, I saw him again on location. The book was hidden in the wine cellar,” Michael holds the phone precariously between his ear and his shoulder. He’s laying his knives out on the bed, trying to choose which to take with him while tucking his feet into some thick socks. It’s damn cold in Reykjavik.

“How did you get out?” Phillip asks urgently, “Did you kill him?”

Michael stops himself from sighing too audibly as he squeezes his boots on. “No, Dad. He ran when we started hearing sirens.”

That’s all he ever asks about. Gerard Keay this, Gerard Keay that. Sometimes Michael thinks he’s more interested in him than his own son. He has to bite his tongue to keep from telling Phillip that he should’ve adopted him instead, if all he’s looking for in a son is a ruthless killing machine.

“What do you mean he ran? Gerard Keay doesn’t _run_ ,” Phillip insists.

Michael is starting to get very sceptical about just how much Phillip actually knows about Gerry. They’ve gone two whole fights without killing each other. Sure, they’ve really fucked each other up before but in terms of violence nothing has really gotten close to killing. The most annoying thing that Gerry’s done so far is steal his boots. Aside from taking the Leitners, of course.

“I don’t know what to tell you, Dad. I had the book, we heard sirens, he ran.”

“Michael. You’ve been doing a good job getting all these books. And you know I’m counting on you. But if you don’t kill Gerard Keay, we’re going to have problems later.”

Michael feels a nauseating rush of guilt as he’s reminded of his lie. He’d known it was a mistake to not tell the truth the minute he’d told Phillip that he’d got all the books. Now he has expectations. He really believes Michael is going to destroy all seven Leitners, when he’s already lost two. As if all that wasn’t enough, now he wants Michael to kill a man.

Gradually, he’s begun to stop looking forward to going home. It’s not like he’s having any fun or anything out here, getting beat up and shot at over and over. But the longer he maintains the lie, the bigger Phillip’s wrath will grow. When Michael’s finally back in England… Well, he really doesn’t know what’ll happen, or if he’ll survive it.

“Does it really matter if I kill him? I’m getting the books, right? So what’s the point in taking his life if I’m achieving our goal?” Michael reasons feebly.

Phillip growls out a response, low and menacing. “Michael. What do we do?”

Michael takes a second to answer. He’s in deep water now, “We destroy Leitners.”

“That’s right. Why do we do that?” 

Michael shrinks at the patronising tone and mumbles, “Because they’re evil.”

“Good. We destroy evil things. Do you know what else is an evil thing?” Phillip speaks slow, like he’s trying to teach math to a three-year-old.

His voice is hardly above a whisper as he answers, “Gerard Keay.”

“That’s right. So fucking destroy him!” Phillip shouts into the phone, the noise crackling uncomfortably into Michael’s ear.

He winces and nods before realising that Phillip can’t see him. “Yes, Dad.”

“Good. Now tell me how you’re going to do that,” he demands.

Michael swallows and says, “I’m going to fight him. I’m going to win. I’m going to get him on his back and slit his throat.”

“Good boy. And don’t forget the book.” He hangs up.

“Fuck,” Michael whispers, voice cracked and broken, gazing absently at his phone before slumping onto his bed. What is he going to do? He can’t kill Gerry. He can’t not kill Gerry. He wipes at his face, furious at himself for breaking down so easily. This isn’t the way to start a mission.

He tugs a sweater on, looking expectant and pleading at his knives laid out on the bed, like they might hold the answer to this, like maybe they’ll offer a way out. He turns back to the mirror and pulls his hair up into a bun, resolutely ignoring his reflection’s blotchy cheeks.

He swings his bag over his shoulders and casts one last look at the knives before turning his back on them and leaving the room, hooking a ‘do not disturb’ sign over the door.

*

**LONDON, England**

Phillip slams his phone down on the kitchen tabletop, fuming at Michael’s audacity. Who the fuck does that kid think he is? Who is he to tell him what Gerard Keay is or isn’t? Phillip has seen what Mary was capable of. Absolutely horrific feats that would turn the stomach of any man. Nothing so evil could produce anything but. There is no doubt in his mind; Gerard Keay is one rotten apple.

Maybe Phillip made a mistake in choosing Michael. He had been so promising. He’d grown strong. An excellent fighter. Smarter than any kid Phillip had ever known. He was a good boy, everything suggesting that he was ready for this. He studied his whole life. He trained his whole life. He’s been hunting Leitners since he was fifteen years old. How the fuck could killing a man be so difficult?

He’s beginning to worry. The Eye is a tricky one. It’s not quite the Web but make no mistake, it is no stranger to manipulation. Had Gerard somehow talked Michael into not killing him? What if Michael’s been lying to him? He shakes his head; that’s not possible. Michael is loyal, Michael is good. He wouldn’t lie; Phillip had beaten that out of him years ago.

He’s still angrily clenching and releasing his fists when he hears a knock at the door. His first thought is that Michael must be home early from training. It can’t be- Michael’s in Iceland. His second thought is that he has no other acquaintances that know where he lives. So he grabs his handgun.

He creeps to the door and peers out the peephole. Beyond the door is a short older woman, white hair pulled out of her face and half-moon glasses perched on the bridge of her nose. It doesn’t take him long to recognise her as Gertrude Robinson, of the Magnus Institute, and his blood begins to boil again. Avatar of the Eye. Foul woman.

Gertrude is getting a little impatient with all the secretive skulking around she can hear beyond the door and is just about to raise her fist to knock again when it swings open, revealing a tall, broad man with deep set wrinkles and a gun in his hand, shoving unceremoniously into Gertrude’s face.

The old woman looks at the gun calmly and delicately pushes it aside. “Charming,” she snarks. “Are you Phillip Mordecai?”

“What’s it to you? I don’t appreciate your kind coming around here unannounced. This is my home, and I won’t have the Eye poking around in it.” He moves the gun down to his side, but keeps his finger on the trigger, just so this woman doesn’t get any funny ideas.

Gertrude huffs, humourless, “If you think that I serve the Eye, you are sorely mistaken. I only came to… take a statement if you might be so willing. We share a mutual friend. Though I use the term ‘friend’ _very_ loosely.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Phillip grunts.

“Mary Keay. I believe-.”

“I want nothing to do with that bitch or her rotten son. If you have any sense, you’ll get off my fucking porch and leave me alone,” the gun twitches at his side, itching to come up and put Phillip’s money where his mouth is.

A surge of venom floods Gertrude’s veins at the mention of Gerard. What does this great oaf think he’s doing, calling him rotten? She speaks through gritted teeth. “Alright, we don’t have to talk about her. We could talk about anything you like. You can even keep pointing that gun at me if you like. All I want is information.”

Phillip clenches his jaw and surveys the old woman with narrowed eyes. There’s nothing about her that would suggest that she might actually try to harm him. And there’s no information that he has that will be particularly useful to her. He smirks. Maybe he can waste an hour or two of her time, keep her prying eyes away from the general public.

“Fine. We can talk in my kitchen.” He steps aside and allows her to walk into the house. He leads her through a cramped living room. There are shelves lining three of the four walls and they’re all packed with some artefact or other. Gertrude eyes them over with interest. This man is a collector if Gertrude has ever seen one. She can’t help but think a couple of Leitners would look right at home on his shelves. The room doesn’t look entirely unlike how Pinhole Books used to, before it was doused in blood and viscera.

Phillip watches as Gertrude fixes her beady eyes on all his trinkets. She probably just wants them for herself. He huffs quietly. Jokes on her, none of them have ties to the entities. They’re just extremely old and valuable. If she ever got her grubby fear-mongering hands on them she would be sorely disappointed.

Finally he sits down at the kitchen table and gestures gruffly to the opposite seat. The last place that Phillip had actually seen Michael before he left for Spain.

“So what do you want to know, if you don’t want to hear about Mary?” Phillip says, placing the gun on the table, pointed toward her, finger laying across the barrel. 

Gertrude seems to consider this for a moment, glancing around the room with eyes like a hawk. Phillip is willing to bet that she doesn’t even need those glasses. “I’d like to know about your boy. Michael. That’s his name, isn’t it?”

Phillip clenches his jaw shut, and grits out, “How do you know about him?”

Gertrude purses her lips and cocks her head to the side. “Oh, so I can be an avatar of the Eye, but I can’t know anything about you? What makes you think you’re so special?”

Phillip glares, “Enough of your games. How do you know?”

“I work in an Archive, Phillip. I have connections. Adoption papers are a breeze. I want to know if the rumours are true.”

“What rumours?”

“The rumours of two decades ago. You, trying to adopt children, train them to be just like you, carry on your… legacy,” she says the last word with a disdainful curl of her lip and Phillip lets his finger slip down to rest on the trigger.

Of course she would think burning Leitners is such a heinous legacy. The Eye is all about observing, learning, _knowledge_. It probably wants to watch as they pass from hand to hand, destroying life after life.

“And what’s so bad about that? Is it so wrong to want children?”

“Most people want children so they can love them. Most people.”

Phillip pounds his fist down into the table, “Michael is a good boy. He does what he’s told. I know what you’re after, Gertrude Robinson. You’ve sent your own little demon after the books, haven’t you? I know Gerard Keay is out there, trying and failing to grab those books. Nice try, but I trained my boy well. Yours is just a stray.”

Gertrude frowns, but a smile slips onto her face, small and smug, “Pretty good for a stray, for my count. He’s doing quite well out there.”

Phillip scoffs. This old fool is delusional. “He’s a filthy liar, Robinson. If you think he’s doing well then I’m afraid that you’ve been had.”

She tilts her head to the side and the smile grows, “I wouldn’t be so sure, Phillip. Gerard seems to think he’s retrieved two of the three books so far. He should be on his way to his third.”

Phillip frowns, a heavy weight sinking low in his gut, “What are you saying?”

“Oh, I think it’s clear. I’ve heard all about Michael Shelley from Gerard, and if there’s one thing I know for certain, it’s that he’s only got one book. Whatever he told you… isn’t the truth.”

“ _What._ ” Phillip growls, hand tightening around his gun.

*

**REYKJAVIK, Iceland**

All Michael can feel is the hammering of his tiring legs against the cold metal of the stairs. The scraping of frigid air sawing in and out of his lungs as his heart gets the cardio work out of its life. Seventeen flights. Seventeen storeys. He’s so close to the top. So close to the roof.

He can hardly see in the dark of the stairway as his legs keep pumping, and anything he might be able to hear; his own breath and blood, thrumming under his skin, the heavy footfalls chasing after him. They’re drowned out by the constant nagging trill of the alarm system below.

The location is a high-end apartment building, each floor a single spacious flat. Cold, impersonal, owned from tip to tail by a reclusive designer. So reclusive in fact that no one knows why in the world he would need a dangerous fear book.

He’d almost gotten away with the Leitner. His plan to sneak in and sneak out had been going flawlessly. Until someone decided to burst in and trigger an alarm by hurtling through a clear glass partition.

Michael thought he had gotten all of them; they had been easy enough to disable. Apparently, he’d missed one, since Gerry had snuck into the room, just as Michael had been about to stow the book away in his bag and had started at a full sprint toward him. Michael isn’t sure if Gerry noticed the glass wall between them or not, but either way it was one of the stupidest things that Michael had ever seen. He couldn’t help but wheeze out a surprised laugh as he escaped out the door with the book as Gerry recovered on the lush carpeting. 

The lights had come up immediately, bright white and glaring. They serve as a marker for each floor they pass, glowing through the square window of every door on the way up. Michael had been enjoying the gentle quiet of the long starry night before Gerry had barged in and ruined it all.

Speaking of ruining it all, the footsteps behind him are growing louder. Michael’s not sure if they’re getting closer or if the alarm is getting fainter. He’s also not sure how Gerry could be gaining on him; his legs are a lot shorter than Michael’s and he always wears those thick grungy boots. Well, he _had_ until Michael took one off him in Italy.

Finally, the staircase stretches up into a straight length, a door outlined in moonlight at the top. Michael doesn’t think he slows down, but he must, because the next thing he knows, there’s a hand around his ankle and he trips, the edge of a metal step rushing up to meet him. He slams into it, eye socket first, and groans at the feel of tomorrow’s bruise.

Gerry doesn’t let that small triumph stop him. He clambers over Michael, reaching for the book in his hands. Michael feigns hurt a little more than necessary until Gerry is close enough for Michael to drive an elbow into his nose. It crunches under the force with a sickening, audible crack, and Michael shoves him off, thundering the rest of the way up the stairs and hauling the heavy metal door open.

The roof is large and empty, save for a few vents and stove pipes. There’s no barrier between the roof and the open air, twenty storeys of empty space between here and the ground. No exit but for the way he’d come. Michael is as good as trapped.

Michael turns around in time to see Gerry slam the door behind him, breathing hard as he leans against it. Just another reminder of how flawed he is; how human. How despicable Michael would feel if he followed through on his father’s orders. Gerry shoves his hair out of his face, rubbing at the thin trickle of blood trailing from his nose.

“Couldn’t you have run down instead of up? Fuck me,” he grouses.

Michael looks him over. He’s wearing the same leather jacket and dark shirt as Genoa. He’s swapped out the sweatpants for black jeans, though. He’s wearing a lighter pair of boots, allowing for better mobility with the lessened weight. And it looks as if he’s finally fixed his make-up, sporting some dark lipstick that Michael is definitely not going to think about now or later.

“If you didn’t want to run, you shouldn’t have worn jeans, you prick,” Michael taunts, gesturing to his outfit.

“Oh, these?” Gerry hooks his fingers in the belt loops and tugs them up, wiggling his hips. Michael bites his lip and looks away quickly, Gerry watching his face burn with a cocky laugh. “Just for you, babe.” 

Michael thinks if he just keeps glaring at him, maybe the blush will go away. He’s wrong.

“Anyway, you’re literally wearing a black turtleneck. You couldn’t look more like a cat burglar if you tried,” Gerry snipes back, running his gaze over Michael’s body. Michael doesn’t think he’s seeing things when Gerry’s eyes linger on his chest for a little too long.

“Whatever,” Michael says, “Let’s get this over with.” He drops the book and bag off to the side, knowing neither of them will be stupid enough to go for it until one of them is truly down for the count. He brings his fists up around his face and bounces light on his toes, feeling the blood in his veins pump faster as he settles into the comfortable rhythm of combat.

The problem now is that they know each other’s tactics. They may have only met twice, but they’ve both spent a good amount of time strategizing, figuring out the best method of dealing with the other’s signature mode of attack. If either of them wants to come out on top tonight, they’re going to have to get unpredictable. Whatever might happen, Michael’s eager to get his blood flowing; this rooftop is as cold as balls.

The goth dances forward, light on his feet. His fists hang loose in the air, and he dodges a few lazy swipes from Michael. If Michael can get him wound up enough to get sloppy, he can probably get in a few good whacks. Gerry swipes up with his right and cuts in to Michael’s ribs with his left. Michael blocks both before Gerry springs up and slaps him across the face while his hands are busy.

The blow stings, but Michael feels he needed it. The pain lets him know the fight is real. There are real things at stake. He isn’t play fighting with some friend, sparring with a mate in the gym. This is Gerard Keay. A man he’s supposed to kill.

He delivers a couple jabs to Gerry’s midsection, occupying his hands as they try to slap him away, before coming back up to swing the side of his hand into Gerry’s throat. The dark haired man gags, stumbling and glaring at Michael, throwing a sloppy kick out at him in retaliation.

Vaguely Michael recognises that his neck must still be sore from where he stepped on it and choked him last week. He smirks. No wonder he’d been so winded coming up the stairs.

“Okay, enough fucking around,” Gerry rasps, digging a knife out from his belt and bringing it around in a broad swipe that just skims Michael’s chest. A meandering chill curls across his skin and he looks down to find a clean slice through one of his favourite sweaters.

He begins to feel very stupid about how sure he was he wouldn’t need his knives tonight. Maybe he’d made a mistake. Maybe Phillip was right; Gerry is just a cat playing with a mouse before delivering the final blow. But he can’t think about that now. All he can do is make the best of what he has.

“Come on, this is my favourite sweater,” Michael complains, throwing his hands up plaintively before pivoting a quick kick into Gerry’s hand, sending the knife sailing over the opposite side of the roof. He lets his momentum carry him around and swings a leg into Gerry’s face, catching him in the cheek and sending him wheeling into the ground.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Gerry groans, tumbling hard into the ground and holding his face.

Michael makes a split-second decision not to run. Gerry isn’t properly down yet. Sure, he’s momentarily distracted, but that isn’t enough. He decides to take a page out of the other man’s book, dropping his whole weight down across Gerry’s waist, knees bracketing his chest, pinning him to the ground.

Gerry growls, “God, your heavy,” and drives a fist into Michael’s face. The hit connects with bone-rattling force, and Michael can feel his own teeth slice into the inside of his cheek. 

“Yeah? How’s your nose?” Michael taunts, countering with another punch to the face, hauling him up by the collar to bring his face up to meet his fist. Gerry struggles beneath him, trying to dislodge him, and Michael can’t help the smug satisfaction he feels at finally turning the tables.

Gerry is breathing hard, legs kicking out against the ground behind him and Michael is having trouble holding him down. He can only lean so much weight into him before the punches he’s delivering lose power. He hauls back his fist again, but this time Gerry catches it, squeezing Michael’s fingers until the knuckles start cracking.

“Ah! You’re the fucking worst!” he swears and tries to pull away, but Gerry has a tight hold of him. He untangles his other hand from Gerry’s shirt and tries to punch him again, but Gerry blocks it. With both his hands held at bay, Gerry’s cold fingers wrapped strong around his wrists, Michael starts to panic. What is there to do now?

He rears his head back and pulls Gerry up with him, before throwing his face forward into Gerry’s nose with a grunt. The smear of blood on his top lip from where Michael had elbowed it before turns into a steady stream as Michael headbutts him again.

Dazed, Gerry lets go of his hands, and mumbles, “What’d my nose ever do to you?” Michael huffs a surprised laugh, but the joke isn’t enough to distract him from what Gerry’s doing, moving his hands down to his hips.

The attempt to go for his knife is obvious, and as Gerry brings it around, Michael grabs his wrist hard, drawing a pained grunt from the man on the ground. With his other hand he works the second knife out of his grip and throws it away. Distracted as he is by this, he doesn’t notice until it’s too late that Gerry has got a hand around his throat. He tries to gasp but no air comes in, and he lets go of Gerry’s wrist in a panic, freeing his hand to join the other at his neck.

Michael scrabbles uselessly at his hands for a moment, seeing a fiery desperation in Gerry’s eyes as he squeezes harder and Michael can feel his own face start to turn purple. He gives up on his hands and leans down, bringing his own long arms around to claw at Gerry’s face and dig into his eyes. Gerry writhes beneath him, trying to keep his face out of Michael’s reach to no avail. Michael presses his thumbs hard into Gerry’s eye sockets and the man screams, letting go of Michael’s throat.

Michael doesn’t stop when Gerry’s eye-marked hands leave his neck, and Gerry begins to claw at him in turn, making it hard for him to keep his grip. “How do you like that, eye freak?” he grits out.

Gerry bucks under him, thrashing wildly, “Fuck- I don’t- Stop! I don’t serve the Eye you fucking idiot!”

Surprised, Michael’s hands slacken, and Gerry finally throws him off, right hip ploughing painfully into the concrete roof. Gerry doesn’t serve the Eye? That can’t be right, Phillip told him… Gerry must be lying, that’s the only explanation. Michael pushes those distracting thoughts from his mind, figuring it’s high time to get the fuck away from this scene. He rolls and starts to scramble in the direction of the book.

Just as he gets his feet beneath him, something catches his ankle and he’s sent sprawling to the ground again, chin bouncing painfully on the concrete. He rolls over to see Gerry with a grip on his ankle, struggling to keep a hold when Michael kicks at him.

“Ah- god, not this again,” Michael huffs breathlessly, “Stop fucking grabbing my ankle!”

Gerry hauls him close by his leg, and Michael is again taken aback by the strength in his arms. As expected, Gerry sits across Michael’s waist as soon as he’s close enough and says, “Stop having long legs, then.”

Michael counters with a punch aimed at his face, which Gerry grabs and holds to the ground above Michael’s head. Michael tries to get his left arm up, but before he can begin to move it, Gerry brings his leg around in a surprisingly limber movement to pin it to the ground, grinding his wrist to the floor.

Michael stops for a moment, weighing his options. Gerry has both of his arms pinned. He’s too heavy to dislodge without the use of his hands. There’s nothing he can do at the moment. So he waits. Waits for Gerry’s next move.

He seems to be catching his breath, leaning most of his weight into the limbs holding Michael at bay. His face is bloodied from the nose down, and in the low light of the moon Michael can see the white of his left eye spidering with red veins where Michael had pushed too hard. The bridge of his nose is bracketed with rows of bloody scabs where he had bit him in Italy.

Finally Gerry reaches down with his free hand to pull yet another knife out of his belt and hold it against Michael’s throat. Suddenly Michael is hyper aware of where he is. An empty rooftop in Iceland with an angry goth on top of him, weight settled across his waist, and hot breath wafting over his face. Michael licks his lips, chapped from the cold. Gerry’s eyes follow the movement, and Michael gets an idea. It didn’t work too well for him in Spain, but maybe second time’s the charm.

He lets his eyes wander over Gerry’s face. It’s a mess but it’s still clear that there’s a very handsome man beneath it all, and he allows himself to enjoy the view. He shifts slightly, not trying to escape, just reminding Gerry that he has a man pinned beneath him.

It works, he thinks. It’s hard to tell in the low light but he thinks there’s a blush rising up on Gerry’s face, and the grip around his wrist falters for a moment, his boot not holding his other arm down so firmly. Not yet, Michael tells himself.

“Are you going to kill me?” He asks in a low voice, putting just a little fear into it, to feed Gerry’s ego.

Gerry doesn’t answer, but his brows tug together slightly.

And really, would it be so bad? If it all ended here on this lonely rooftop with only his ultimate nemesis for company? At least he’d lived. Although, he’s not really sure if you could call what he’d done in London _living_. Sure he walked and breathed and ate and slept but… he didn’t have any friends. No family except for Phillip. He knows he should be grateful. Phillip gave him the home he’d always wanted. But he can’t help but feel like this last month has been the best time of his life. And it’s been spent with someone he’s supposed to kill.

Distantly, he recognises how low it is, this tactic he’s using. But if Gerry wants to keep sitting on him and pinning him down, he’s gotta learn his lesson. He thinks about his life for a moment, how short it’s been, how completely devoid of joy it is, and allows his eyes to fill with tears. “Go ahead, Gerry,” he whispers, swallowing and feeling his throat work against the knife pressed to it, “I don’t mind. It would save me a lot of trouble.”

The frown digging itself into Gerry’s brow deepens, and his mouth falls open slightly. Michael’s managed to genuinely confuse him. He doesn’t think about how the expression more closely resembles concern because Gerry’s grip is loose enough. He rips his arm from under Gerry’s boot and slaps him hard across the face, taking the knife in his other hand and pressing it up into the other man’s chin.

“Get off,” Michael growls, eyes clear.

Gerry’s face is suddenly closed off and furious, “You lit-.”

Michael presses the tip of the knife up until he feels skin break under the pressure, drawing a bead of blood in the soft skin of Gerry’s throat. “I _said_. Get. Off.”

Gerry winces and backs up, shuffling back with his hands raised until they’re no longer touching. Michael still points the knife at him, keeping his face stony. Michael looks between the blade and Gerry, noticing how easy it would be to leap forward and bury the blade in Gerry’s chest. Finally ending this terrible game.

The thought brings a singing flood of fear into Michael’s veins and he can feel his stoic façade crack under the idea. He tosses the knife, and something in his face must give him away because the look on Gerry’s face when he turns back to him is no longer one of vindicated fury. It’s that look of consternation.

Michael watches him closely for a moment. They’re both sitting on the ground, facing each other. They’re a little out of breath, but not enough to really warrant such a stand still. Something’s changed, and Michael doesn’t know if it’s for better or worse.

Michael’s not far from the book. He’s certainly closer than Gerry. He doesn’t quite know what the deal is with the strange atmosphere they’ve created, but he’s willing to take his chances. He scrambles to his feet in a flurry of movement and bolts for the book, scooping it into his bag and skidding to the edge of the building. He hears Gerry swear behind him as he can’t quite get up quick enough to grab hold of Michael’s ankle again.

Michael looks down over the edge of the building and sees a fire escape, a couple metres below the top. Not a long drop at all. A sound so loud he barely recognises it for what it is echoes across the void between buildings, and a bullet skids off the ground beside him. He turns around slowly.

There’s a gun in Gerry’s hand. It’s pointed in Michael’s direction, but he’s clearly taking no effort to aim properly. Still, Michael can’t shake the feeling that this is it. Infamous, evil, murderous, Eye-aligned Gerard Keay has finally had enough of playing with his food. Phillip was right.

“Why now?” Michael asks, holding his hands aloft in the air.

Gerry shakes his head, frowning, “What?”

“Why kill me now?” 

“I’m not-,” he stops himself and his face contorts in a look of anger. Furious at what he’d let slip.

“You would’ve already done it,” Michael tells him, capitalising on his hesitation, “You don’t have the balls.”

“Fuck you!” Gerry shouts, squeezing the trigger again. The shot bounces off the ground at Michael’s other side. Again, no effort into actually aiming at Michael. This isn’t the end. Neither of them truly wants it to be.

There’s a tense moment of eye contact between the two. Michael knows he’s going to get away with the book. The only way to stop him is to kill him, and he can see in his eyes, Gerry doesn’t have it in him. Either that or he just doesn’t want to. Michael isn’t sure which is worse.

“I can’t let you sell it,” he decides to say. He doesn’t know why, perhaps some kind of solace to the other man? That’s ridiculous, Michael shouldn’t care how Gerry feels when he doesn’t get his way.

Gerry shakes his head again before asking, “Who _are_ you?”

“Why? So you can tell your diary who kicked your ass tonight?” Michael sasses.

Gerry scoffs, and Michael tells himself he’s mistaken when he hears a lick of genuine amusement in the sound. “Fuck you, Michael.”

Michael’s eyebrows rise in shock. He’d never introduced himself, had he? “How do you know my name? How could you know that if you don’t serve the Eye?”

Gerry rubs his face, looking tired. His make-up is smudged and there’s still blood dripping over his lips. “I looked at your passport, dumbass.”

“Oh,” Michael says plainly. He looks back over the edge, just to check that the fire escape is still there. “You could’ve just asked.” He says sincerely, locking eyes with Gerry one last time, before jumping down onto it and starting down it at a fast pace.

He hears Gerry exclaim loudly above him, the sound of gravel skittering away from his boots as he rushes to the edge to look over. Michael continues running down, fairly confident that Gerry won’t follow him. A few shots sound off and the bullets ricochet off the escape and the wall of the opposite building. He’s still not aiming to kill. Michael stops halfway down, leaning against the railing, and takes a moment to catch his breath.

Gerry isn’t going to kill him. Gerry hadn’t planned on killing him. Gerry isn’t aligned with the Eye. Phillip had told him over and over again that Gerry would kill him without sparing a single thought. He told him that Gerry was a servant of the Ceaseless Watcher. He told him that Gerry was evil.

That man on the roof isn’t any of those things. Sure, he might sell Leitners, perpetuating their evil in the world, but he’s not a killer. Not to Michael, anyway.

He trusts Phillip, though. He has to. Phillip is all he’s had for most of his life. He wouldn’t be the man he is today without him. He has to trust him. But all signs are pointing to the fact that Phillip is wrong. Either that, or he lied to Michael. He knows Michael’s stance on murder. He knows that Michael doesn’t want to kill. Yet he had tried to trick him into it, tell him it was necessary.

Why would he do that? Phillip is a good man. He lives his life with the purest intentions, only wanting to rid the world of Leitners. Sure, maybe he doesn’t treat Michael as well as other parents treat their children, but that’s Michael’s fault, he’s sure. He hasn’t done as he’s told. He needs to be better.

But why would Phillip lie about this? Michael is so sure that Gerry won’t kill him. That is a fact that he’s observed with his own eyes. Phillip’s ideas of a blood-thirsty Gerard Keay cannot co-exist with the evidence that Michael has seen. Phillip _lied_ to him.

He continues on down the fire escape, tired from the fight, tired of its implications. He’ll think about it in the morning, when his mind is clear, and his body is sore. He can’t think straight right now.

Despite all the doubt whirling around in his mind, the single most solid pillar of his life crumbling beneath his hands, Michael can’t help but feel that post-combat exhilaration. He has the Leitner. He won. He _won_. He allows a smile on to his face.

And what’s more, he realises, he had fun. His muscles are burning, he’s still vaguely breathless, and he’s so damn thirsty and cold, but he had _fun_. Is something wrong with him? There were several moments up on that rooftop where he was so sure that his life was in danger. But the giddy buzzing in his veins tells him he just had the time of his life, fighting over a book with the greatest enemy he’s ever known.

Michael finds himself looking forward to finding the next location. He wants the next book. He wants to see Gerry again. Wants to fight him. There must be something wrong with him. There must be.

*

Gerry steps back from the edge of the rooftop and sits down against a vent, feeling the gun light with a lack of bullets in his grasp. Why had he brought the gun? He knows damn well that he isn’t going to kill Michael. Maybe it was the fear factor. He knows he’s losing Michael in terms of how intimidating he finds him. Maybe that’s why he had brought his guns and knives this time, lord knows he’s never really wanted to use them. Not on Michael.

It would be so much easier if he could just take Michael out. It would make things so much simpler. Why can’t he just take all that hate he feels and turn it into violent energy? He’s done it before. It’s a fool proof method. Unless what he feels is no longer hate. He shakes his head; no, he has to hate him. He sells books for profit, he’s not a good person.

The flood of excitement that he’d felt when he’d seen Michael tonight seems to disagree. There had been that idea that Michael was dead, nagging at him ever since Italy. To arrive on location and find him alive had brought him a disturbing rush of relief.

And when he’d had Michael pinned, and he said he wouldn’t mind if Gerry killed him… the genuine concern he’d felt definitely isn’t supposed to come with the whole ‘hate’ package deal. Sure, he’d been mad when it was all a farse to get Gerry off of him, but the way his stoic mask had cracked momentarily, showing a grim expression beneath, Gerry isn’t so sure it was an act.

It comes as a shock when he finally realises. He doesn’t hate Michael. The more he sees him the less the feeling burns hot through his veins. The more it’s replaced by something else. Something that Gerry can’t bear to name.

When he wakes up in the morning, he thinks about how he’ll see Michael at the next location. When he goes to sleep, he thinks about how he’s going to best Michael next time. When he sees Michael, he feels… _excited_. When the fights over he’s filled with… disappointment, exhilaration.

No, that’s not hate, that’s… Oh. 

_Oh._ God. _Fuck._ This isn’t good.

He digs through his bag to find his phone, frantically fishing it out and pressing call on the last used contact. Gertrude picks up quickly.

“Gerard, are yo-.”

“Gertrude, I’m fucked. I have a _crush_ on him.”

She sighs.

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> y'all im so excited for the next chapter its gonna be so fun!  
> Let me know what you think of this one why doncha ;)


	6. BOOK 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Land of Plenty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Most of this was really fun to write! You'll know which part wasn't.
> 
> There's a couple of content warnings for this one:  
> The usual graphic violence and blood  
> Semi-graphic depictions of domestic abuse  
> Suicidal thoughts (kind of- more like existential lamenting)
> 
> If you'd like to avoid the last two, just skip over the last scene from "LONDON, England" onward.
> 
> Enjoy!

**HOBART, Tasmania, Australia**

Gerry is in a taxi. He’d arrived in Tasmania over two hours ago and checked into his hotel with no problems. He isn’t feeling the pressure to rush to the location as much as he has previously. He doesn’t know what it is. Yes, he wants to get there fast, before anyone else does, so he can get in and out with the book with minimal fuss. But he also wants to get there just late enough that Michael will be there, too.

For a moment on that rooftop, Gerry had thought he made a mistake. When Michael told him that he ‘couldn’t let him sell it,’ Gerry had thought that Michael was implying that the book shouldn’t be sold in general, and that this whole endeavour was one long misunderstanding. But now that Gertrude has told him what she knows; that Phillip almost certainly sells and collects entity-related items, and that Michael is a pawn in his game, Gerry knows he must have misinterpreted.

Gertrude hadn’t gotten much from her encounter with Phillip Mordecai. She had gleaned from the state of his house that he has a keen interest in artefacts, and that he has one short temper. She also discovered that in whatever contact they kept while Michael was abroad, he’d _lied_ to Phillip about the progress he’d made.

Phillip seems like a bad guy. Gerry isn’t one to cast assumptions on people that he’s never met, but if he’s in the habit of threatening old ladies that he hardly knows with a loaded gun, he thinks it’s safe to assume that he probably isn’t that great. And Gertrude had said that he’d gone completely balls-to-the-wall crazy when she’d let on that Michael wasn’t telling the truth.

Maybe it’s just a matter of perspective. Whenever he’d lied to Mary, she never flipped out like that. She’d always taken the betrayal with a saccharine smile, before finding a way to make what Gerry had lied about come back to bite him in the ass. Looks like shitty parenting comes in all shapes and sizes. Who would’ve thought?

It hadn’t taken Gerry long to make the connection between Phillip’s overly aggressive behaviour and the way Michael had acted in Reykjavik. He’s found the root of Michael’s apparent death-wish. Gerry was sure it had been an act for a split second, but the way his face cracked when he’d thrown away the knife revealed the truth. Michael was really doing all of this at the behest of Phillip. And if Phillip wants him dead as much as Gertrude seems to think, and Michael hasn’t even attempted to kill him, that means he’s gone against his dad’s will in more ways than one. He must be in for a world of pain when this is all over.

Gerry doesn’t meet a lot of people. Especially not under normal circumstances. He doesn’t have many friends. He doesn’t think he has any, in fact. So it’s come as a start to him that the first person he’s spent any real time with in a while, besides Gertrude, is going through almost the same thing that he has. He’s doing whatever he can to please Phillip, and the notion of failing that is enough to scare him more than any Leitner. Gerry knows this, he’s seen it in Michael’s eyes, and he’d felt it in himself, before Mary died.

None of this takes away from the fact that Michael has to be stopped. He takes the books to Phillip, and Phillip sells them. That’s bad. So Michael has to be stopped, despite the giant, unfortunate, completely inconvenient crush that Gerry seems to have developed on him. 

If he’s being honest, Gerry doesn’t know how he was ever supposed to not feel this way about Michael. He’s fucking beautiful; handsome round face, soft blond hair, legs for days. The respect he feels for him as a damn good fighter doesn’t help matters either. If he weren’t Gerry’s worst enemy, and also the most annoying person in the world, he’d be perfect.

It is making everything worse, though, these feelings. If Gerry could channel the hatred he’d felt when he’d first seen that infuriating note in Vietnam, he could one hundred percent take Michael down. And his reluctance to really harm Michael has already hindered him (See: Iceland) and if Gerry can’t push that aside, he doesn’t know if he’s going to have the drive needed to collect the rest of the books.

He’s going to have to. Lives are at stake.

Gerry thinks about that moment of change he’d felt- they’d felt, up on that rooftop. When Michael had thrown that last knife away and they’d watched each other with companionable exhaustion. Neither of them wants to kill the other, and they both know it. As long as that’s true, Gerry can’t see why he can’t have a little fun with this now. Since he’s not in any serious danger. Maybe Michael’s on the same page.

He remembers the look Michael had given him when he’d pinned him, part of the act or not. The way his pale skin filled with colour, making the freckles stand out on the bridge of his nose. The weight of his gaze as it wandered over Gerry’s face. The slight shifting of his body beneath him.

Even if Michael _had_ been trying to seduce him for the purpose of getting away, it felt damn good to feel desired, and Gerry is only human. He resolutely doesn’t think about how that could be happening again soon, as a large house comes into view.

It sits on the edge of a vast property, stilts holding it up where it reaches over the edge of the cliff. It’s immense and square, made of copious amounts of glass and money. It’s big enough to hold several dozens of people, but too nice to be a family home, and it’s blocked by an imposing gate. Gerry steps out of the taxi.

As he pays the driver, he feels his injuries pulling at him. The soreness of his stiff nose, becoming an ever-present fixture in his life just as much as the bruise on his throat. He must look a mess. Who can blame him; he’s been kicked in the face twice in the past fortnight. 

The landscape of rural Hobart is hilly and sparse. Nothing but road and fence for miles, aside from the grand house. Gerry can hear the sea crashing up against the cliff face a hundred metres below and the breeze from the coast is meandering, offsetting the warmth of the sun, sinking below the horizon and spilling pinks and yellows across the sky like a tipped inkwell on parchment.

He stretches out his legs and breathes in the fresh, briny air as he approaches the gate, wondering how to get through and just _hoping_ there’ll be a ledge or something he can stand on, so _he_ can be the one to do some face kicking this time.

*

Michael climbs over the tall iron fence of the seaside estate in Hobart. When he drops down on the other side, he sees a small key pad set into the stone. It’s beeping an angry red, and Michael realises he’s probably set off some kind of motion-triggered alarm. He takes his knife from his side and flips it so that he can bash the hilt into the thing until it stops blinking.

Michael can’t help but think this feels more like a game now. More than it had before. He’s not stupid; he knows what’s at stake here. But it isn’t his life. And it isn’t Gerry’s. He brought his knives this time but he knows he won’t use them. 

He can’t shake the feeling of anticipation that had slowly come over him as he had neared the location. He’s an idiot for thinking like this, but he can’t wait to see Gerry again. He doesn’t like the guy. Definitely not. It’s just… something’s different since that rooftop in Iceland. They’d come to some level of understanding. They’re both after the books, but neither of them is going to kill the other over it. 

He doesn’t have much of a life back in London, and it’s a sad thought, but it’s almost as if Gerry is the closest friend he’s got.

Besides… Gerry is not unpleasant to look at when his mouth isn’t covered in blood. And Michael can’t lie to himself anymore; it’s insanely hot when he pins him to the ground. Obviously, Michael’s still going to try his damnedest to stop Gerry from getting the book. The fucker still sells them on, something that Michael has to stop, but now that no one’s life is in danger… there’s no rule against having a little fun, right?

Even the fact that Phillip hasn’t been answering his calls isn’t bothering Michael at the moment. It’s alarming, for sure, but without his constant, disappointed voice worming its way into his ear, Michael is finally, properly living. He feels free.

He figures he’s probably on a timer now before any sort of authorities arrive, so he moves quickly to the main house, searching around it for an easy entry point. Some of the exterior walls are made of glass, and he can see through into the building. It doesn’t look like anyone’s home, which squares up with the lack of cars in the driveway.

He’s already set off one alarm, no harm in triggering all the rest, Michael thinks, finding a smaller window. He brings the sleeve of his sweater down over his hand and punches through the glass before climbing inside.

The room inside is sleek and modern, a chic mixture of glass and wood, painted cool blues and greens and greys to match the crashing ocean below. Furniture is sparse, but the few pieces that do sit around look like they cost more than Michael’s ever earnt or spent in his entire life. The space is well lit, not by bulbs, but by the natural light of the sun, streaming in through glass walls and ceilings.

Michael hears something, loud and shrill, and quickly drops into a crouch where he stands in front of the shattered window, before realising what the sound was. A dog. A dog barking. The skittering of claws against hard wood floors gets closer until a small, round ball of fluff bounds around the corner, tail wagging, tongue lolling, tiny paws coming up to scrape at Michael’s pant leg.

“Oh!” Michael exclaims, scrubbing his hands through the Pomeranians fur, “A good boy!” the dog yips, and Michael scratches it behind the ears. He’s more of a cat person, but he can appreciate a good boy when he sees one. “Don’t tell your person I was here, okay?” he says sternly. 

Then he hears the tell-tale scuffing of boots just down the hall. He looks up, and locks eyes with Gerry. Neither of them moves for a solid half-minute, Michael still crouching with the dog pawing at his leg. Gerry watching, stock still, one leg raised as if poised to take another step. Then Gerry takes off at a run, disappearing behind a wall.

Michael swears and straightens up, the dog trotting out of the way as he bolts after Gerry, following the squeaking of his boots on the polished floors and catching glimpses of dark hair as he moves through the cavernous building. Finally he finds Gerry stuck at a dead end, facing a wall of glass that looks out across the sea, visibly realising he’s run himself into a corner. 

Michael leaps forward, not waiting for Gerry to turn around before tackling him down into a carpeted space between a huge wall-mounted television and a two-seater sofa. Gerry wriggles and grunts beneath him, and Michael only has time to look up before Gerry’s jabbing an elbow into his face, crunching hard into his nose. Michael shouts and rolls off, bringing his hand up. It comes away clean; his nose isn’t broken.

He scrambles to his feet and comes to face Gerry standing on the couch, a head taller due to his vantage point. He grins for a moment before driving his foot up into Michael’s face, catching him in the jaw and sending his head snapping backward. He staggers, head and shoulders colliding with the TV. 

Dazed, he stumbles to the ground, TV falling with him, shards of the screen splintering under his back. Gerry just fucking kicked him in the face! Michael grudgingly acknowledges that it’s only fair: he has kicked him in the head twice so far.

He struggles upright, no longer feeling so great about this fight. Gerry is behind the couch, hands held slightly aloft at his sides, ready for anything. Michael moves to the right, and Gerry moves to the left, anti-clockwise around the couch. Michael changes direction, and Gerry does the same.

“So it’s like that is it?” Michael asks.

Gerry licks his lips quickly, then runs his eyes over Michael with an appreciative, yet calculating gaze, before pulling out a knife from his belt. Michael eyes it as he twirls it around in his grasp. The blade isn’t thick, and only about a finger’s length, but it looks sharp where it glints in the sun. Michael has a really bad idea.

He bites down a smile and says, “That’s not a knife.” He tugs his own out of its sheath at his hip, holding it up enough so that Gerry can see it. It’s twice the length and width of Gerry’s, more of a small scimitar than anything. “ _That’s_ a knife.”

Gerry’s mouth drops open as his eyes flick between the knife and Michael’s face. He looks like he’s trying desperately to hold back a smile. He fails, and a snort of a laugh follows with it. “You planned that, you fucking dork,” he says, gesturing accusingly at him with his dagger.

Michael pinches his lips together, fighting back his own smirk. He shrugs. “When in Rome.”

Gerry shakes his head with another small chuckle and Michael tries not to be too proud at getting a laugh out of him. Without warning, Gerry flings his knife at Michael. It cartwheels through the air, burying itself in the wall where the TV had been, narrowly missing Michael’s shoulder as he dodges out of the way. Gerry’s right: they shouldn’t have too much fun.

Michael drops his own knife, never actually meaning to use it, and takes a run at the couch, using the cushions as a stepping stone to vault over the back of it, bringing both feet up and springing them out into Gerry’s chest. The goth flies back into the opposite wall with a comical ‘oof,’ and Michael tumbles back onto the sofa, rolling off and onto the floor.

He picks himself up quickly, taking up a position on the back of the couch, watching as Gerry struggles to his feet. He looks up at Michael and huffs out a big breath, winded from the kick. Michael swings a boot out at his face. He’s gone much too long in this fight without making Gerry’s nose bleed. It’s time to rectify that.

Gerry catches Michael’s leg, grunting under the force of the movement, and jams the ankle up under his armpit, moving quickly back with it until Michael starts to lose balance. Not wanting to fall and be at Gerry’s mercy, Michael jumps into him, hoping to take him down onto his back. 

That isn’t what happens.

Gerry stays his ground, letting go of Michael’s leg and bracing himself just as Michael leaps off the sofa. When Michael makes slams into him, he doesn’t let himself topple over, instead wrapping his arms around Michael as his legs slip around Gerry’s waist. 

Gerry _catches_ him.

Shocked by the turn of events, Michael doesn’t immediately make a move to get away, hands braced against Gerry’s shoulders, eyes wide. Gerry mirrors the look, seemingly just as surprised at what he’d accomplished. Don’t think about his strong arms. _Do not think about his strong arms_.

Michael is thoroughly distracted by Gerry’s strong arms when he begins to move, tightening his arms around Michael and pivoting, pitching him sideways at an angle so his head rams the wall. The collision is so hard that chips of plaster fly off and catch in Michael’s hair. Snapped out of his thoughts, Michael groans as Gerry drops him, bringing his leg up to kick at Gerry’s chest once more.

Gerry grunts under the force of it, but again catches Michael’s foot, swinging him around. Michael tries to stay upright on his one leg, to keep up with the movement until Gerry lets go. Gerry releases his grip and Michael is flung over the couch, crashing hard onto the floor.

Michael struggles up to standing, the couch between him and Gerry once again. They’re both breathing hard, and Michael drops his hands down on the couch, acting more winded than he really is. Gerry narrows his eyes at him and watches for his next move.

Michael grabs a cushion from the couch and throws it at Gerry, hoping it’s enough of a distraction for him to get around the sofa for a proper attack. Gerry’s eyes widen and his hands come up instinctively to block the projectile as Michael wheels around and delivers a harsh kick to the back of Gerry’s knee.

He swears and stumbles but doesn’t go down. His hand shoots out, grabbing Michael by the front of his sweater, pulling him forward and driving a punch into Michael’s gut. He doubles over as his belly roils with one-part pain and two-part nausea. Gerry hauls him up by a fist in his hair, reeling his other hand back for another blow to the face.

Michael pitches his head forward into Gerry’s face, feeling his nose crack against his forehead and the hit Gerry had been aiming up go sailing past his ear. “Fuck!” Gerry shouts, voice squeaky with the aggravation of multiple injuries to the same area. Michael takes the opportunity to tackle him to the ground. He hits the floor hard, but recovers quickly, reaching to his belt for another knife. He gets as far as unsheathing it before Michael takes a hold of his wrist and slams it into the floor.

Gerry grunts as Michael slams his wrist into the designer wood again and again until he drops the knife. Michael throws it to the side, and a loud crash follows. They both look over in surprise to find the glass wall facing the sea shattering, shards raining down on the floor and into the ocean. The noise is ear-splitting, and without the barrier, the sound of the waves crashing against the cliff below filters in through the gaping hole. Michael spares a thought for the dog, hoping to god that it doesn’t do something stupid like run out of the space where the wall used to be.

Still shocked, Michael can’t stop himself from being shoved off of Gerry, landing hard on his tailbone before turning to face him. He delivers a swift punch to Michael’s throat and he chokes, slumping backward. Gerry fists his hands in Michael’s sweater, dragging him until there’s nothing beneath his head, sitting down across his hips.

He realises with a start that most of his head is hanging over the edge of the house, suspended above the churning waves below. He looks up, and he can see the exterior wall of the building. In a panic, he bunches his hands in Gerry’s collar and tries to pull himself back, with the other man as leverage. He doesn’t move; Gerry is just too heavy.

Gerry is looking at him intently, brown eyes melting red as honey in the light of the setting sun. His pupils are wide as he breathes hard, leaning heavily on his arms against Michael. His nose is once again dripping blood and his hair is loose and fluttering lightly in the sea breeze. Michael hates himself for wanting to run his hands through it. 

Seemingly satisfied with what he sees, Gerry leans back, and Michael is suddenly _very_ aware of where Gerry’s ass is positioned. He tries not to let it show on his face.

Gerry licks his lips absently and raises an eyebrow. “Is that a gun in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?”

Flustered, Michael says the first thing that comes to mind, “This is Australia. No guns allowed.”

Gerry laughs, and for all intents and purposes it seems genuine. His eyes crinkle a little at the edges and Michael glimpses the shine of straight white teeth between his full, black lips. Of course this fucker has perfect teeth as well.

Michael struggles a little, and Gerry leans back down to pin him in place, smile disappearing. “Whatever,” Gerry says, looking nonchalantly between Michael’s eyes and parted lips, “Let’s get back to business.”

Michael swallows audibly, feeling the open air below him grasping up, looking to take him down to his death. “If by that you mean you’re going to give me the book and leave me alone now, then by all means, go ahead.”

Gerry frowns, tugging lightly on Michael’s shirt. “I thought you had the book?”

Michael laughs a little at the confused look on his face. If he didn’t know better, Michael would say he looked cute. “No. I only just got here when I saw you first.”

“Oh.” Gerry says, seemingly at a loss.

Michael lets a small smirk grow on his face, still steadfastly ignoring the hungry chasm below his head. “So choke me out and go find it, big boy.” He quirks an eyebrow.

He watches in amusement as Gerry’s face slowly colours red at his words, blush shining through his tan skin. It’s a good look on him, Michael thinks.

“I’m not g-,” Gerry stops and swallows, shifting uncomfortably on top of Michael.

“Why not? Pussy?” Michael challenges, unsure if taunting Gerry is the best way to go, with his head hanging over certain death, but charging ahead anyway.

Gerry huffs, the corner of his mouth lifting a little. He leans down languidly, eyes wandering, slow as he pleases, over the other man’s face. Michael can feel his own cheeks heat up the closer he gets. Gerry doesn’t actually stop getting nearer, and when he tilts his head, breath hot and lips parted, Michael begins to think… shit, he’s really going to do it. Gerard Keay is really gonna k-.

Then Gerry bolts, ripping himself away from Michael and hobbling as fast as he can out of the room. 

“Oi! Fuck,” Michael takes a short second to compose himself, momentarily terrified that the lack of extra weight will send him over the edge, before he gets himself into a sitting position, safe on solid ground. God, of course he would’ve fallen for that, what an idiot!

He gets up quick, scrambling after Gerry. He stumbles just as he reaches him, and he makes a desperate grab for Gerry’s ankle as he trips. Gerry tries to take another step, stuck in place, and smacks into the floor. He groans out a weak, “Shit.”

“Not so fun, is it?” Michael manages, restraining his leg against the ground and crawling up.

“No! It fucking sucks!” Gerry exclaims, kicking at Michael with his other leg and trying to wiggle out of his hold. He tries to roll over, but Michael scoots onto the goth’s back, pinning him down. Gerry thrashes around beneath him, creating enough room for Michael to slip his arm around his neck, shifting onto his back to hold Gerry flush against him. He manoeuvres him into a tight headlock, legs locking around his waist.

Gerry keeps struggling but can’t seem to find any leverage to get away, or any position that allows him to hit Michael. His arms flail up, trying to find Michael’s face, presumedly to attack with his chipped black nails, but he keeps it well out of range. Gerry growls, frustrated, and stops writhing. Michael tightens his hold; unsure what Gerry might be planning.

“Truce?” he thinks he hears Gerry say.

“What?” he asks incredulously.

Gerry grunts, annoyed, “Truce! Just until we find the book. There’s no use fighting when neither of us even have the thing we’re fighting over.”

Michael considers it. If it looks like a trap and talks like a trap… “That sounds like something someone in a headlock would say.”

“Fuck you!” Gerry gets in one last attempt to strike Michael. It misses. “Let’s just find the book first, then I can kick your arse.”

“Or I could put you in a sleeper hold and go find it myself,” Michael suggests.

“Oh yeah? Then why haven’t you done that instead of just let me wear myself out in your stupid fucking headlock?”

That’s a good question. “Just to annoy you, Gerry.”

Gerry struggles feebly again before sighing. “Knock me out. Let me go so we can find the book. Or lay here all night with yours truly. Your choice.”

Michael considers for a moment. As much fun as letting Gerry thrash around against him is, he doesn’t know how much time they have before any cops get here. And as stupid as it is, Michael doesn’t want to knock Gerry out, because that would mean the end of their fight. He lets out a long-suffering sigh and unwinds his arms from around Gerry’s head.

Gerry gasps, sagging on top of Michael. He rolls off onto his elbows, glaring half-heartedly at him. Michael can still feel the heat of his body, he’s so close. His face is a mess of smudged eyeliner, blood, and smeared lipstick. He reaches up and wipes under his nose with the back of his hand, before wiping it in turn on Michael’s sweater. Michael laughs a little, too weirded out by this turn of events to combat the movement. 

“I’m going to get a prosthetic nose. Made of iron. We’ll see who’s laughing then, Shelley,” Gerry says lowly, running his tongue over his bloodied lip and delivering a light slap to Michael’s cheek.

Michael gets to his feet, eyeing Gerry suspiciously. They’ll find the book, together. But Michael isn’t just going to _trust_ him. They move through the house, tangerine light of the sun highlighting Gerry’s skin in gold. Long shadows play across the hard wood floors, stretching their bodies out in unnatural proportions. It’s almost dark by the time they walk into the last room unchecked. 

It’s a study. There’s a large, sleek desk to one side. The wall that it’s facing is glass and looks out onto the front lawn. The rest is bare space save for a single bookshelf and a decorative fireplace. On the mantle sits a small display tripod, proudly exhibiting a worn copy of Ex Altiora. They see it at the same time and both men freeze in place.

There’s a tense few seconds where neither of them moves a muscle, waiting to see if the other will take the first step. The book is mere metres away, nothing between it and them but a flaming rivalry. Michael’s heart begins to pound harder than it has in his whole time out of London as he decides on a course of action.

He makes the first move, but it isn’t toward the book. Michael turns. And he takes Gerry by the collar of his jacket. Then he smashes their lips together. 

There’s a bit of resistance when Michael first grabs him, but that was to be expected. The real surprising part is how fast Gerry responds to the kiss once their mouths are slotted together. He presses into it, a soft sound escaping his throat as his hands come up to Michael’s face, cold and dry. Gerry tastes like the sharp metallic tang of blood, but as far as Michael’s concerned, right now, it’s the best thing he’s ever tasted.

Michael relaxes a little, shoulders slackening and head tilting. He draws a shaky breath in through his nose and slides his tongue insistently against Gerry’s lips. Gerry’s mouth slips open instantly, and Michael is again surprised by his head first dive into such vulnerability. His hands slide up a little, fingers dancing over the loose hairs at the nape of Michael’s neck.

Michael’s fingers are itching to card through Gerry’s hair, but he can’t allow himself to get distracted- and he _really_ wants to get distracted- even as Gerry pushes himself closer. Michael lets his hands uncoil from their position at the other man’s collar and drift across to rest on Gerry’s shoulders. 

He pulls Gerry close and allows himself another moment to enjoy the slick heat of his mouth before gripping his shoulders tight and driving his knee up into Gerry’s groin as hard and fast as he can, drawing away just as Gerry’s mouth drops open in a barely audible squeak of pain.

Michael shoves him down for good measure and Gerry topples onto the floor, knees turned to jelly. “Sorry,” Michael says lamely, breathlessly, grabbing the book from its pedestal. Distantly, he remembers that the cops are probably on their way, so he takes a smaller dagger from his belt and tosses it at the glass wall, wincing as it shatters. He jumps down out of the house and runs across the yard, cold sea air of the evening whipping at his flushed cheeks and bitten lips.

He shoves the book into his bag as he runs, checking over his shoulder to see Gerry struggling into a sitting position. He hears, “Fuck you, Michael!” Carried to him on the wind.

He turns around briefly to stick his middle finger in the air, laughing. He spins back around and takes a running leap at the fence, grappling over it with ease. He’s never felt so alive.

*

**LONDON, England**

Michael feels bad about kneeing Gerry in the groin. It was such a dick move. He keeps reminding himself that Gerry stole his boots and kicked him in the face. And, of course, sells Leitners so that they can continue to wreak death and destruction upon the world. So bruising his balls is one hundred per cent justified.

Another thing knocking around in his mind is how exhilarating it had been to fight Gerry under non-lethal circumstances. It had been _fun_ and Michael is endlessly amazed by that. Michael had made a joke, and Gerry laughed at it. Not a subdued, scornful huff, but an actual, genuine, laugh. And it was nice. His laugh was pleasant and clear, and Michael wants to hear it again, against all of his better judgement.

He knows he shouldn’t feel this way. Even if he can finally admit to himself that he doesn’t hate Gerry, he definitely can’t like him. Enemies don’t like each other, _ever_. Michael’s sure about that… He’s fairly sure. Well, he could be a little surer about it. 

But with a kiss like that… fuck but that kiss had Michael feeling some type of way.

And Gerry had kissed back almost immediately, melting into him, pulling him close. As if they hadn’t been at each other’s throats just moments before. There’s nothing like a breath-taking kiss between rivals to punctuate the dramatic shift in their relationship. Even if it was a diversion so Michael could destroy his junk and grab the book for himself.

He’d burnt the book. A taxi had arrived at the location faster than the cops did, and he got back to his hotel quickly. He’d set the book alight without looking at it once; he’d learnt _that_ lesson in Vietnam. It wasn’t until he’d stripped off his sweaty clothes in the bathroom that he noticed the dark stains across his lips from where he’d kissed Gerry, and the events of the day came rushing back, tugging a smile onto his face.

Two books in a row, he’d smirked to himself. Things were looking up. He just needed to call Phillip, then he could take a well-deserved rest. He only just remembered that Phillip wasn’t answering his calls when the call rang out again. There was a text though, from Phillip, and his blood had run cold at the sight of the words on the screen. The sixth book was in London. He would be going home early.

Now he’s taxiing from the airport to Phillip’s house. He doesn’t really think he can call it home, not anymore. He’s seen what the world has to offer, and he can feel life trying to drag him away from these shitty suburbs. His stomach ties itself in knots as the streets get narrower, city lights fading behind him, weedy footpaths growing in thick around cramped two-storeys. When the taxi stops on the side of the road with a lurch, Michael is almost sick with nerves.

“You getting out, or what?” The driver asks, not unkindly.

Michael glances between her and the door of Phillip’s house, biting his lip and scratching absently at his cuticles. “Uh. Could you drive me around the block one more time?”

She purses her lips and flicks her gaze to the house. A window quickly shutters itself when she turns her head. “Look. Whatever’s waiting for you in there, it’s not gonna disappear if we take another lap.”

He worries his lip for a second longer before digging a wad of cash out of his back pocket. He holds it out to her, other hand on the door.

“Sir, this is too m-.”

“Take it,” Michael insists, “ _Please_.”

She looks him hesitantly in the eyes, before gingerly taking the cash. She flips through it for a moment and Michael gets out. She goes to get out, too, “At least let me help you with your bags.”

“No, it’s alright. Thank you,” Michael says, getting his own suitcase and bag out of the boot and marching up the steps to the house without allowing himself a glance back.

The door swings open before he can get there, and Phillip is on the other side. Michael does his best to smile, hoping if it doesn’t come off right, he can just blame it on the long flight. He _is_ very tired.

“Hi, Dad,” he says.

“Welcome home, Michael,” Phillip says with a big smile. Michael pauses for a moment. Phillip is happy to see him? Could it be, even if Michael hasn’t fulfilled his order to kill Gerry, he’s proud of Michael for getting just the books? Michael allows his own smile to grow bigger, more genuine. Maybe things aren’t so bad.

Phillip beckons him into the house, gesturing with a nod of his head for Michael to follow him to the kitchen. There’s a bottle of whisky on the table, just like the last time he had seen it. Almost as if he hadn’t left. If it weren’t for the ache in his bones and the pull in his muscles and the memory of chapped lips against his own, he’d almost think that the whole thing never happened.

Tonight there are two glasses. Michael takes his place at the table and Phillip sits across from him, immediately pouring two fingers of scotch into both. He pushes one across to Michael. “Have a drink. You’ve earned it.”

“Thanks, Dad, but I don’t drink whis-.”

“ _Drink._ ” The smile has disappeared.

Maybe something is wrong, Michael thinks. Phillip isn’t usually a drinker. He’s never forced Michael to drink before either. A heavy weight starts to sink low in Michael’s gut as he raises the glass to his lips and takes a sip of the amber liquid. It burns all the way to his stomach, stilled tied in knots.

“How was Hobart?” Phillip asks. His tone is neutral. “Did you retrieve the book?”

“Yeah, Dad, I destroyed it. I sent you a text to tell you. Don’t know if you read it.”

“Mm,” Phillip grunts. “And Iceland?”

“Got that one, too,” Michael says, watching him carefully. 

“Are you sure?”

Michael laughs a little. It’s a nervous sound. “Yes, I’m sure.”

“Are you lying to me?” his voice is quiet.

Michael’s breath catches in his throat. “No, I’m not lying. I got the book in Hobart, and Iceland, I swear, I-.”

“I spoke to Gertrude Robinson the other day,” Phillip looks up at him, right in the eyes, and Michael flinches. “Do you know who that is?”

“Gertrude Robinson, head archivist of the Magnus Institute,” Michael stutters.

“That’s right,” Phillip nods. “She has a hand in this game as well. I’ll give you one guess as to who her player is.”

Michael’s mind and heart races as he puts the pieces together. Magnus Institute. Ceaseless Watcher. The Eye. “Gerard Keay,” he whispers, gaze dropping to the glass in front of him. He takes another shaky drink.

“Gerard Keay,” Phillip parrots. “He talks to her. A lot.”

“Dad, I-.”

“Shut the _fuck_ up!” Phillip explodes, slamming his fist down on the table. Michael jumps, keeping his gaze fixed on the glass. He doesn’t dare move, and his eyes well unbidden with tears. He’s filled with more fear than he’s ever felt before, Leitners be damned. Michael let himself relax when he was away. He let his guard down, he got soft. He allowed himself to forget about the consequences. Now he’s back in England. He’s trembling. “You lied to me, Michael!”

Michael clenches his jaw tight, and he can hardly see the amber liquid through the haze. His breaths come harsh through his nose. His chest is tight.

“You lied, Michael,” Phillip growls. “You have to pay the price.”

Phillip stands from his chair, moving around the table to stand beside Michael. Michael goes to get up as well. Phillip puts a heavy hand on his shoulder and shoves him back down. 

Michael looks up at him, “Dad, I’m so sor-.”

Phillip moves his hand from Michael’s shoulder to his throat, and he can no longer speak. “Do you know how many lives will be lost because of what you’ve done? You failed to kill one evil man. Now hundreds will die because of those Leitners you let go. How many did you even retrieve? Did you get any?”

Michael tries to speak. To answer. He can’t.

Phillip tightens his grip, and the tears slip down Michael’s cheeks. “I’m disappointed in you, boy.”

Michael doesn’t fight back. He knows what he did wrong. He lied. He didn’t get all the books. He didn’t kill Gerry. He paws at Phillip’s hand. But he doesn’t fight. 

He shouldn’t have kissed Gerry. He shouldn’t have ever thought he was attractive. He shouldn’t have been such a deviant. He shouldn’t have lied about the books. 

Shouldn’t have gone on this mission. Shouldn’t have trained his whole life for this bullshit. Shouldn’t have been adopted by Phillip. Shouldn’t have lost his parents. 

He shouldn’t have been _born_.

God, he wishes this could be over. All of it.

Phillip hits him. That’s just the first.

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading y'all!
> 
> Also I just wanted to say that if anything ever triggers you, or you feel it should have a content warning, please feel free to tell me, I want everybody's experiences with my work to be as safe and enjoyable as possible. <3


	7. BOOK 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The moment we've all been waiting for. (Even if you didn't know it)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The boys say "FUCK gender conformity!"  
> Seriously I've been so keen to write this chapter for so long and all your lovely comments have played a massive role in getting me here, so thank you all so much <3  
> Also: in light of the new episode and the discourse around it, I have a few thoughts I’d like to share. I’ll put them in the end notes.
> 
> Enjoy :)

**LONDON, England**

Gerry is in his apartment in London. The bare amount of furniture he owns had collected a fair amount of dust since he’d been away, but he hasn’t been bothered to clean any of it off beside his couch and tv. 

He’s getting antsy. It’s been two months since Hobart. His nose has finally healed, and he wants to get back into the fight. The sixth book is here in London, but the precise location hasn’t been released, and there’s no way to find it. Gerry just has to wait. And if there’s one thing that Gerry Delano can’t do well, it’s waiting.

At least his cat had been happy to see him when he got home. There’d been fresh food in her bowl, and she was fatter than ever. Gerry had smiled at her, content with the fact that Gertrude had kept her unspoken promise to feed her. He scratches behind her ears, idly watching tv. He knows he should probably be researching other Leitners, but he can’t risk getting caught up in one of them and not being available for this one.

What the fuck is taking so long anyway? Why is this one so different? It’s been actual months since the last one, where only a week at most had passed between the previous five. He isn’t allowing any of this to worry him, anyway, even if it does suggest that this next one is… bigger somehow.

Not to mention Gerry hasn’t seen Michael for that whole two months. He doesn’t want to say that he’s gotten attached but… he kind of really wants to see Michael again. Especially after what happened in Hobart…

He’s yanked out of his thoughts by the sound of his phone ringing. He picks it up quickly, not troubling himself to see who it is. There’s only one person who has his number.

“Gerard. There’s been an update.”

“I’ll be right over.”

When Gerry arrives at the Institute, he doesn’t bother to knock before he enters Gertrude’s office. It’s as messy as ever, and she sits behind her desk, prim and proper as always, tapping away at her laptop as if Gerry had never left. She doesn’t look alarmed; there’s not a hair out of place. He sighs; the update must not be too exciting.

“Gerard. Good to see you,” Gertrude greets, hardly taking her eyes away from the screen.

“What’s this update you’re talking about? Is it the location?” Gerry says, taking a seat and propping his boots up on the desk. He’s acting nonchalant, but there’s nothing he wants more than that street name and number to come out of Gertrude’s mouth right this second.

“In a way,” Gertrude says slowly, finally turning away from her laptop. Just like she had before the first book, she opens a desk drawer and rifles around for something inside it.

“Gertrude, spit it out, please,” Gerry says, practically begging.

She hands him a plain white envelope. It’s addressed to the office of Gertrude Robinson, Archivist. “Gertrude, this says it’s for you.”

“Just open it.” Gerry lifts the already broken seal and slips out a pink card. It’s about the size of Gerry’s palm, and he reads his own name in curling metallic gold.

> _Gerard Keay,  
>  We cordially invite you to our  
> Spring Ball  
> At Hagen Manor  
> 9 pm, Saturday_

An address follows, and Gerry stands to leave.

“Where do you think you’re going?” she says.

“I’m going to get my shit, and head over to get this fucking Leitner, Gertrude, what does it look like?” Gerry says.

She purses her lips. “Look at the back.”

Gerry pauses at the door and flips the card over. In tight black script it reads:

> _The Hagen Manor will be guarded for a full 7 days before and after the event_

Gerry throws his hands up in exasperation. “Gertrude, a ball? This is ridiculous! And why is it addressed to me, specifically? I don’t understand.”

“I didn’t organise this!” She says, scowling. “Whoever has been holding the information seems to have gotten a little bored with the way things are going. The book will be there, on Saturday. You won’t be able to get through security before or after. You’ll have to suck it up and go to the ball. I’m assured of this.”

He chews on the inside of his cheek for a moment. “This sucks.”

“Mm,” Gertrude says, nodding. “There’s a dress code.”

“ _What?_ Gertrude!”

She huffs a small laugh, “Again, I have nothing to do with this!” She observes his forlorn expression for a moment. “You know… every other person who’s been observed to be interested in the Leitners has probably also been invited. I can’t imagine you were the only one.”

“How could they know? We’ve gone all over the world. And there was literally no one but me and Michael in Hobart. And Iceland.”

She nods. “Yes. I’ve begun to suspect there’s a bit more here than meets the eye.” She chuckles to herself, “That is to say, I believe the Eye is involved.”

Gerry grits his teeth when he remembers all that’s happened, the additional information that he was being watched the whole time colouring it in a voyeuristic light. Whoever has orchestrated all of this has seen everything he’s done. Everything he and Michael have done. Yikes. 

“As I was saying. Everyone involved will be there. That includes Michael. And everyone _is_ required to dress up nice…” she waves her hand absently, suggestively, not meeting his gaze.

Gerry narrows his eyes, “Are you trying to convince me to go by telling me Michael will be there in a nice suit? You’re fucking ridiculous.”

She raises an eyebrow.

He sighs, “Fine. I’ll go.”

She smiles. “You’ll do fine.”

Gerry shakes his head, exasperated. This is going to be a disaster.

*

Michael sighs as his concealer runs empty. He shakes the bottle, squeezing out the dregs, and smears the rest over his eye. 

He’s standing in Phillip’s shitty bathroom. The fluorescent light makes him look too pale and too red all at once, washing his skin out into a sallow mask. The mirror is grimy too, so it’s a real miracle that he can see anything in it, let alone the bruising on his nose and brow. It’s been two months since Hobart, and still he hasn’t had time to properly heal. And finally, something is happening. A ball.

He digs through the cupboard for his mascara, hoping Phillip hasn’t thrown it away in his absence; he hasn’t had cause to use it in the weeks back in England. It’s still there, shoved in the back. Maybe this will distract from the swelling, Michael thinks. It’s old and a little clumpy, but it’ll have to do. 

He makes sure all his knives are secured in place and checks his look in the mirror, turning left, turning right. He hates it. But there’s nothing else he can do.

He can hear Phillip downstairs, the sound of his small tv fizzling up through the thin ceiling. If he gets down the stairs and out the front door fast enough, he can probably avoid him. Michael’s going after a Leitner, though. He’ll definitely want to talk. He calls for a taxi and quietly steps out of the bathroom, sitting at the top of the staircase.

When a honk blares out from in front of the house, Michael clatters down the steps and opens the front door. He hears “Michael-,” just as it closes, and he’s across the lawn and in the taxi, greeting the driver with a nervous smile.

“Where are we going, lad?”

“Hagen Manor,” Michael says breathlessly, checking that his knife is still strapped to his leg.

“Ah. Must be why you’re all dressed up, then,” he continues conversationally as he pulls off the curb.

“Yeah,” Michael says, leaning against the window and watching the neighbourhood roll away. It’s nice to get out of the house, the tension of living with Phillip after his spectacular fuck up gradually bleeding away the closer he gets to Hagen Manor. He can finally breathe again.

There’s so much riding on this book. If Michael can bring this one home and show Phillip that he really has been retrieving the books, maybe he’ll lay off him. Maybe he’ll finally be proud of him. All he has to do is get this book. That’s it. It should be easy. Well… it _would_ be if Gerry wasn’t also going to be there.

As much as Gerry is definitely a hindrance in actually retrieving the Leitner, Michael’s heart flutters to think about seeing him again. He knows it’s stupid. He knows he shouldn’t feel this way but… Michael can’t force himself to hate Gerry any longer. Time and time again, he’s had ample opportunity to kill Michael, and he just… hasn’t. He might be fetching Leitners for Ms. Robinson, but he isn’t evil, he can’t be.

Michael can’t think of a reason why evil might be so eager to kiss back.

He shouldn’t have kissed him, he knows that. It was just a stupid ruse to get the book, and if Michael had only remained strong and fought him for it instead, like they have all those times before, he wouldn’t be feeling like such garbage right now. There isn’t a single thing that he doesn’t feel conflicted about. Does he like Gerry? He definitely doesn’t hate him, and there’s really only one alternative, because there’s no way to stay neutral in a game like this. But he can’t like him. It just makes everything so much worse.

Lost in thought, Michael almost doesn’t hear him when the driver announces that they’ve arrived at their destination. The taxi is guided through a circular driveway, pulling up in front of a grand house- if such a small word could encompass this monstrosity. The night is dark, ever-present London smog blotting out the stars and half-obscuring the moon. If it weren’t for the bright spotlights highlighting the main entrance, specks of rain flitting like midges through the yellow light, Michael would have a hard time seeing where he’s supposed to go.

The manor is huge, made of a smooth white stone, sprawling wide and imposing across a meticulously kept lawn. Michael steps out onto the porch and immediately, there is someone by his side. He starts, and his hand begins to fly to one of his knives before he stops himself. The man beside him is wearing a kind smile, red suit, and bowtie.

“Right this way,” he says, and holds out a white-gloved hand, gesturing grandly to the entrance. He leads him through a sparkling foyer, steps echoing on the cold marble floor. The sound of people and music filters throughout the building, getting louder and louder until Michael and the usher are standing in a large archway, facing an impressive ballroom.

The walls are decorated with sheer white curtains and golden rope. On one side of the oval room is a raised platform, where a small orchestra spins a jaunty, yet sophisticated melody. On the other side are two large staircases, meeting in the middle at a small landing, before disappearing up into further obscured levels. In between is a massive floor filled with people mingling at the edges, twirling around together in the centre.

“Do you have your invitation?” the usher asks.

Michael nods absently and hands it over, still transfixed by the scene. It looks like something out of a fairy tale, or a Disney movie. The room is so large that Michael even has trouble discerning the facial features of the musicians on the far side.

“Very good. Enjoy your evening.”

Michael looks out across the sea of twirling bodies. Certainly not every one of them could be here for the book? Most people that he can make out the faces of are older, weathered by a long life full of aristocracy and money. He can’t spot a single familiar face. No burley gunmen, no hired muscle. And no Gerry.

He powers past his disappointment and clips down a short set of steps into the crowd. The press of bodies around him isn’t near as intense as he’d expected. He’s relieved to find that there is more than enough room to move around on the outskirts, where waitstaff mill about with platters of champagne and canapes. Michael nervously scoffs a few shrimp-somethings but shakes his head with a pleasant smile at the drinks. He needs to keep on alert. He needs to get to those staircases.

He’s a good head taller than most of the crowd here, and he can spot nothing amiss within it. That’s what he tells himself he’s looking for as he scans over the room. He’s definitely searching for potential hitmen or shady looking waiters, definitely _not_ for a certain dark-haired eye-tattooed goth. 

That is, until he finally spots him.

Gerry is across the room, stepping cautiously down into the fray. He looks uncharacteristically nervous, but Michael hardly notices; he’s too distracted by his outfit. 

Gerry is wearing a black leather corset, fit snug against his waist over a crisp black dress shirt, along with a shiny black tailcoat. A small gap in the crowd reveals dark chunky boots, fitted with several elaborate straps and buckles. His hair is done up in a respectable bun, and his smoky make-up is smudged just right, dark eyes shining, and polished silver of his piercings glinting in the white light of several chandeliers.

He’s doing this on purpose, Michael thinks. No way he just put that on, not knowing how fucking sexy he looks.

Michael is just about to head in his direction, not quite knowing what his plan of action is, when Gerry looks up and meets his eyes, and they both stop in their tracks. Gerry’s eyebrows lift slowly up toward his hairline, and his mouth slips open as he eyes Michael over. He’s just about to start skirting around the crowd when a hand lands on his arm.

He looks to it in surprise, and there’s an old woman beside him. She’s short with grey hair and her eyes are brown and cloudy with age. She smiles gently up at him, eyebrows pinched in concern, “Dear, what ever happened to your face?”

Michael subconsciously runs his tongue over the split in his lip. “Oh, you know, I’m just a bit of a klutz,” he chuckles, eyes darting over to Gerry, still in the same position.

She chortles in return, “I’m sure that’s not true. Here, dance with me, and we’ll find out.”

Michael glances again at Gerry, before looking back at the woman. She smiles kindly at him. “Alright, ma’am.” He takes her hand and she beams.

*

Gerry is feeling very uncomfortable. He looks good; he knows that, but the clinging of the coat to his arms and the clipped formality of his slacks is bugging him. All the people in here look the same. Every other face is a pasty, age-slackened old man, crisp tuxedo shining in the sparkling crystal of the room. The rest are women, hiding they’re age behind make-up, no matter how young, pressed into tight dresses and flashing jewellery.

This whole fancy deal is making Gerry itch. He wants out. But if there’s a chance that Michael’s here, Gerry is willing to suck it up. He hasn’t seen him in months, and he’s jonesing for a good fist fight. He’s tried not to think about that other thing since he got back, but now that he’s so close to seeing Michael again, he can’t help but think of the last time they met.

The aching in his face and body, the thrumming of adrenaline in his veins, the perfect bloody slide of Michael’s lips against his. It was more than Gerry ever could have imagined, aside from the part where it was all a diversion so that Michael could knee him in the balls and get away with the Leitner while he was moaning on the ground.

In hindsight, Gerry thinks he actually saw that coming. When Michael pulled him close and smashed their mouths together, there was the smallest sliver of a second where Gerry had thought ‘oh, this is definitely a trap.’ The thought was immediately followed by another, ‘who cares, Michael is _kissing me_.’ Gerry hasn’t been able to decide whether it was worth it.

The only real problem with it (besides the ball-kneeing) is that it has the potential to completely fuck up their dynamic. Gerry has no idea where they stand now. Will they fight like they use to? Yell and swear and insult each other? Or are they going to be civil to each other now? He hopes not; that doesn’t sound like any fun at all. 

He shakes the thoughts out of his head and snatches a glass of champagne from a passing waiter, downing it all in one go, much to the man’s bemusement. He doesn’t know why he’s so nervous. Is it because of all these people? Because some of them are innocent bystanders? Is it because he doesn’t know what the deal is with this ball? Is it because Michael is here, in the same room as him for the first time after Hobart? Could it be a combination of any of those things? Or is it something else entirely?

Gerry can’t know. He’s eyeing the room, trying to find Michael. He isn’t even trying to fool himself into thinking otherwise. Finally, Gerry sees him. The crowd parts for a moment, and- _Oh_.

What Gerry sees is almost enough to make him reconsider his stance on fancy dress.

Michael is wearing a long, high-necked, sleeveless red dress, deep colour offsetting his smooth pale skin. It fits his frame perfectly, flowing seamlessly over his body, splitting apart at his thigh, revealing dark tights. The dress brushes the floor, an impressive feat given that Michael is a tall guy, _and_ he’s wearing heeled boots; black and elegant. His long hair shimmers gold in the bright lights, twisted into a loose braid over his right shoulder, a few locks curling away at his temples. Gerry has never seen someone so beautiful. If this is what comes with going to a ball, Gerry’s going to have to break out the suit more often.

So taken by the blond’s look is Gerry, that he almost doesn’t notice the deep split in Michael’s lip, or the cut across the bridge of his nose. Their eyes meet, and Michael takes a step toward him before he’s pulled away. Gerry frowns, a strange boiling sensation burbling up through his gut. Michael is hurt? Gerry can’t figure it out. It’s been months since Hobart, and injuries like that should have healed over by now.

Gerry doesn’t even remember hitting Michael in the mouth. No, he’s sure of it; Michael hadn’t been bleeding when he kissed him. The metallic tang in their mouths was all Gerry.

Which means those injuries had to come from somewhere else. _Someone_ else. Gerry’s skin prickles. The hairs on the back of his neck stand on end, and in a moment, he’s flushed with anger. Someone hurt Michael. The itching in his bones for a fight with the other man seeps out at the thought and it’s replaced by a strange desire to get a little retribution on whoever did this to him.

Why is he so mad? That’s what he can’t figure out. He’s hurt Michael plenty, made him bleed plenty. _Wanted_ to do it. Why now, is he so upset by a few cuts on his face?

He can’t possibly feel that much about him, right? Sure, Gerry might have a bit of a crush on the guy, but he doesn’t _care_ , does he? Gerry watches as Michael’s pulled into the crowd, twirling around with an old woman, a gentle smile on his face. No, he can’t. He can’t.

Gerry steels himself and begins to move through the spinning crowd toward Michael. The music picks up a little as he does, and soon he’s being battered around by couples swinging into him. It’s difficult to keep track of the tall blond in the crowd, despite his height, and Gerry only finds him again when the song ends, and another is about to start up.

“Sorry to interrupt,” Gerry says gruffly to the woman. He turns to Michael, holding out a hand, “May I have this dance?”

Michael regards him slowly before nodding, something indiscernible in the curve of his lips and shine of his eyes. Gerry smirks and takes Michael by the waist as the music starts up again, clasping his other hand around Michael’s. His body is warm where they touch, and Gerry has a hard time stopping himself from pulling him closer.

Neither of them says anything for a few long moments. Gerry’s just noticed the slight swelling around Michael’s eye, and is working awfully hard to keep the anger off his face. The mascara is making a valiant effort to distracting from the swelling. At the very least it draws attention to the cloudy grey of Michael’s eyes. Gerry wonders how he had failed to notice the flecks of blue and green around his pupils, it’s not like he hasn’t been close enough before.

Michael is watching Gerry closely, back and hand rigid beneath his. Maybe a little conversation will ease the tension. “So. How many knives did you manage to fit into that dress?”

Michael glances down at himself quickly, as if just remembering what he’s wearing. “More than you’d think.” His voice is low and lilting, softer than Gerry’s ever heard it. He could get used to the sound.

Gerry hums, trying not to think of all the places where Michael may have stowed his knives.

“We’re wasting time,” Michael says, tilting his chin up to look around the room. His arm is stiff around Gerry’s shoulder, only getting more so the longer he watches the crowd.

“I only just got here,” Gerry says with a sly grin, “Eager to get rid of me?”

Gerry watches as his jaw clenches and relaxes before looking back at Gerry. Michael’s eyes wander over him, and he curses internally when he feels his face heat up. “How are your balls, Gerry?”

Gerry huffs, “Better. Thanks for asking.” He pinches Michael’s waist, and the blond retaliates with a swift slap to Gerry’s face, more of a tap than anything. Gerry laughs, wincing.

Michael smiles and chuckles, before schooling his face into something more I’m-dancing-with-my-enemy appropriate. Gerry sobers as the smile slips off Michael’s face and he goes back to watching the room. He tightens the arm around his waist and reels him just a little bit closer. Michael looks down at him.

Gerry gazes up into Michael’s eyes, momentarily taking his hand from his and placing it against Michael’s face. “Who did this to you?” He asks, voice low and cold.

Gerry feels the muscles of Michael’s jaw jump under his touch, before Michael snatches his wandering fingers and snaps them out into the proper waltz position, breathing harshly through his nose. “Wouldn’t you like to know?” he hisses. “What, you want to give them a medal?”

“Far from it,” Gerry admits quietly. Michael’s expression softens with subdued surprise, but he doesn’t answer. “Michael-.”

“Gerry,” Michael returns. 

Gerry sighs and lifts his chin. That line of questioning isn’t getting anywhere right now. “We’re on the same page, right? The staircase?”

Michael’s grip tightens in the back of his coat, “Of course. I’m not stupid.”

Gerry quirks an eyebrow, “Could have fooled me.”

Michael scoffs and shakes his head, hiding a smile. “You’re unbelievable. And we’re still wasting time.”

“Oh, come on,” Gerry says quietly, slipping his arm further around Michael, pulling him nearer still, “You and I both know there’s nothing waiting for us upstairs beside a book and a fist fight. Unless…” He lowers his eyes slowly over Michael’s body, biting his lip.

Michael blushes, predictably, and Gerry smirks. Michael leans forward, tipping his head down beside Gerry’s face, so close his lips brush his piercings. “And now would be a perfect time to go. Nobody will think twice about us sneaking away with you looking at me like that.”

Heat rises to Gerry’s cheeks in turn at how close Michael’s gotten, breath curling warm against the shell of his ear. “Fine. When the song ends, we’ll go.”

Michael leans back with a self-satisfied grin, and tugs Gerry along, dancing to the rest of the song in earnest. Gerry soaks in the rest of the dance, the proximity of Michael’s body against him, the ease of their movement. Even the classical music gets to him less and less as the song winds to a close and Michael steps away.

Gerry sighs and turns, moving toward the flight of steps, arms growing cold. The crowd grows a little thick around him, and he watches in annoyance as Michael trots up his side of the staircase with ease before Gerry even gets to his.

When he finally gets to the bottom of the steps, Michael is long gone, and he hurries up to the second level. Away from the bright twinkling chandeliers, Gerry’s eyes take a moment to adjust on the landing. There are several hallways, no telling which one Michael went down, or which one the Leitner is in. Gerry chooses one at random and it yields nothing. He tries another, to the same result.

He’s just starting to get frustrated, thinking he’s lost Michael and the book, when he hears a steady tapping from above. It sounds like the clipping of heels against stone. He glances around on the landing, and sees on the far side, another staircase, half hidden in the gloom.

He starts up it quietly, not an easy feat with his big boots. The third level is even darker than the one below, lit only by a few old-fashioned sconces on the wall. Gerry sees Michael, crouched just outside a door, the split of his dress falling to one side to reveal a slim dagger strapped to his upper thigh. 

The door clicks open in front of him, and he stands, glancing around before slipping into the room and shutting the door. Gerry starts after him, stopping at the door to listen for a moment. No sound but for some rustling. He opens the door and steps through.

It’s an office. It doesn’t look much different to Gertrude’s at the Archives, although it’s infinitely cleaner and more organised, everything on the shelves arranged neatly. There’s a desk in the centre, large and wooden, impressive in its grandeur and design. Beyond that is a floor length window, gazing out across London. The moon has emerged from behind the clouds, gentle light slanting in through the glass.

Rifling through the desk, silhouetted against the window, is Michael. He looks up as Gerry enters, hair a cut of silver in the darkness. Gerry approaches, circling around the desk. Michael doesn’t move save to pull the dagger from his thigh and hold it aloft, glinting in the moonlight.

Gerry comes to stand behind the desk, a metre away from Michael. He could fight. He could, but… it almost doesn’t feel like the right answer, here in this moonlit office of Hagen Manor. Gerry takes an experimental step forward, slow. Michael stays put. There’s a chair behind the desk, a simple armchair, and Michael is standing beside it. Gerry takes another step forward, and they’re toe to toe, knife held tight but absent at Gerry’s throat.

There’s a decision to be made here. A direction to choose. Gerry can move further still, punch Michael, kick him, cut him, let him do the same to him, until one of them is on the floor and he can search for the book on his own. That’s one option. Or Gerry could do something else. Something that, before Hobart, Gerry would have thought was completely off limits.

Gerry lifts a hand and pushes the knife to one side. Michael takes a breath in and Gerry reaches up still, hands sliding over the other man’s shoulders. He pushes gently, leaving room for protest, but Michael goes with it, sinking down into the chair, blade clattering to the floor.

Gerry, hands still on his shoulders, fits a knee beside Michael’s thigh, followed by the other, and slowly settles his weight into Michael’s lap. The blond lets out the breath he’d been holding, and his hands flit instinctively to Gerry’s hips. In the light of the window, Gerry can only see half of Michael’s face, eye shining bright, shadow of the split in his lip deeper than ever. He moves his hands up to cup Michael’s jaw, tilting it up, just slightly.

“Who did this to you?” he whispers.

Michael rolls his eyes, “This again, really?”

“Michael…” Gerry breathes.

“What?” Michael counters.

“I knew you liked it. When I sat on you.”

Michael lets out a surprised laugh, stifling it behind his hand. Gerry smirks, and takes a gentle hold of his wrist, moving the hand back down to rest on his hips before pressing forward to fit their lips together.

Michael shifts into him, a small sound escaping his throat, lips sweet and soft. Gerry pushes closer in his lap, and a sharp pain cuts through the pleasure of having Michael’s mouth on him once again. He jerks and breaks away. “What-,” he looks down at the offending area.

“Oh.” Michael says. He flips his dress to the side and pulls another dagger off his leg, sticking it in the arm of the chair before dragging Gerry close by the back of his neck to kiss him soundly on the mouth.

Gerry pulls in a breath against him and runs a tongue across Michael’s lips. Michael opens his mouth immediately and sucks on Gerry’s tongue as it moves to fill the space. Gerry groans and slides his hands up to undo Michael’s hair from its braid, delving his hands deep in the soft curls. He tugs a bit as he feels them twist around his fingers, and Michael’s breath catches.

Michael yanks him closer again by the hips before trailing his hand up under Gerry’s coat, around to the small of his back. He finds the knife tucked into the back of his slacks and slips it out, stabbing it into the polished wood of the desk and pushing the coat off Gerry’s shoulders altogether. Gerry allows it, before returning his hands to Michael’s body, running deft fingers over his chest. Michael’s hands continue to wonder up Gerry’s back, playing absently over the corset before dipping lower, palming Gerry’s ass.

Gerry breaks away on a gasp and Michael smirks before dropping his mouth to Gerry’s neck, nipping and sucking at the skin of his throat. The goth hums, and bucks forward into Michael’s thigh reflexively. Michael pauses, and he fears he’s over done it, when Michael trails his lips back up to Gerry’s.

“Hot and bothered already, Gerry?” Michael mumbles, so close his lips brush Gerry’s when he speaks.

“I wasn’t the one who got all heated when I got sat on in Hobart. That part was all you, babe,” he bites back, desperate to not have this space between them anymore yet relaxing into familiar barbs and banter.

Michael’s eyes darken and he pulls Gerry forward roughly by his shirt. “You were the one moaning on my first kiss. What is it, Keay? Are you a slut? Or are you so lonely getting your ass kicked in enough to get you off?”

Gerry freezes, breath catching, and he looks down and away from Michael, turning his head so their lips no longer touch. Michael’s hands have stilled where they were, gripping hard in the fabric of Gerry’s shirt. His breath is shaky where it wafts across Gerry’s piercings. The insult cuts deep, slicing down to his core easier than he thinks Michael intended. Gerry moves to get up, but Michael stops him, a hand on his cheek, turning him to face him.

“I’m sorry. That was harsh,” Michael mumbles.

Gerry scoffs a laugh, steadfastly not letting his voice wobble, “You just delivered the sickest insult of probably your whole life, and you’re just going to take it back?” He shakes his head. He never thought he’d see the day; Michael apologising.

“I don’t- I’m not sure you deserved it,” Michael whispers.

Gerry looks in his eyes for a long moment and sees regret and doubt and uncertainty. He sighs, knowing he must not look too different. It’s a real Romeo and Juliet situation they’ve got here. Two sides of the same coin, incompatible and impossible, hunter and collector. Gerry drifts forward slowly, unsure if it’s still on the table, and presses his lips gently to Michael’s when he’s met with no resistance.

Michael kisses back, hands drifting to Gerry’s face and eyelashes fluttering closed. Gerry runs his fingers through his hair again, and sucks gently on Michael’s bottom lip. Michael wrenches back with a muffled curse.

“Sorry,” Gerry says.

“Why?” Michael asks.

“What?”

“Why apologise? Why do you care that you hurt me?” Michael whispers, desperate, “I don’t understand.”

Gerry doesn’t answer. He doesn’t know how. He doesn’t understand either. Instead he asks what’s been eating at him all night, “Is it Phillip?”

Michael freezes under him, hands clenching tight in Gerry’s collar. He draws a few shaky breaths in through his nose before shaking Gerry lightly, “Why? Why do you _care_?”

“I don’t want to,” Gerry whispers. “I don’t want to.”

With a short cry, Michael tugs him forward again to mash their mouths together, swiping hastily into Gerry’s mouth with his tongue and sucking harshly on his lip ring. Gerry returns the sudden passion, unable to get enough of Michael’s soft lips.

Michael’s hands fumble desperately at Gerry’s belt, tugging the buckle away from the leather and tucking his hand in under the cloth, earning a startled yelp from Gerry. Gerry in turn slides his hands up under Michael’s dress, tights rough against his fingers, taking full advantage of the thigh split. Gerry presses his palm against him, and Michael babbles a hasty string of curses against Gerry’s lips, pushing into the touch and clenching his unoccupied hand in the back of Gerry’s shirt.

Gerry grips at Michael’s shoulders helplessly, rocking into his touch, too taken by the feel of Michael’s skin and breath and sweat and lips against him to be embarrassed.

A loud thump breaks through the sound of their panting breath and they both stop still, frozen with their hands down each other’s proverbial pants. Looking to their side reveals a book fallen open on the ground, white orbs of all sizes sprouting from the pages. They roll and blink, lids stretching over pupils and irises of all different sizes. In a moment, the room is filled with staring, disembodied eyes, winking individually, all fixed on the two men. 

“Ew,” Gerry says, at the same time Michael says, “They’re watching us.”

Gerry turns to Michael, taking his hand from between his legs and resting it on the swell of his thigh. “You were looking for a book. And you didn’t think to check the bookshelf?”

“Fuck you. Clever people don’t just keep Leitners around on a normal bookshelf,” Michael grouses.

Gerry buckles his belt back up, and tucks the dagger embedded into the desk back into his pants. He looks down at Michael, “Race ya.” He stands up quickly and jump slides over the desk, knocking several important looking documents over in the process. He dives for the book, gliding through the crowd of eyes and slamming it shut. He holds the Leitner to his chest and springs back to his feet in a room suddenly devoid of eyes.

He’s just about to go for the door when Michael takes him by the shoulder and spins him round, pushing him hard into the bookcase. Gerry reflexively brings an arm up, unconsciously whipping a fist toward him. Michael catches the wrist and holds it down beside his head, bracketing Gerry in with his long arms. 

Gerry realises what he’d been about to do, and regret writhes strong and inconvenient in his belly. He can’t make another move without hurting Michael; he won’t. He had come here expecting a fight. Wanting a fight. Needing a fight. That’s gone. Seeing Michael already battered, not from his own hand, was an odd thing, and Gerry can’t help but feel different now. He doesn’t want to hurt Michael.

“Give me the book,” the blond growls.

Gerry squints at him, “Where have you been for the last three months? We don’t just give each other the book, Shelley.”

Michael’s eyes drop quickly again to his lips, and Gerry thinks he’s going to try his old seduction technique again. Ha, nice try, but Gerry’s already sampled the goods, he’s not going to fall for that. That’s a lie, Gerry would one hundred per cent still fall for it. He’s expecting some suggestive line or other, coaxing Gerry into just handing the book over, so what happens next is completely out of left field. 

Michael _begs_.

“Please,” he says.

“What?” Gerry asks incredulously.

Michael’s breathing is harsh, much harsher than a quick run for the book would warrant. “Gerry… I need the book.”

“We all need the book, Michael, that’s why we’re all here,” Gerry says, voice quiet. What the hell is going on?

“No- you don’t understand, I- fuck, just, _please_ , Gerry. You don’t understand,” Michael insists, growing frantic.

Gerry runs his eyes over Michael’s face, pinched with anxiety. His brow had started to sweat lightly under Gerry’s attention just moments ago, and some of his make up is slipping away, revealing the sick, mottled yellows and purples of bruising around his eye. The cut on his lip hadn’t bled while they kissed, but it does now as Michael worries at it, the scab cracking under his teeth.

“Actually, I think I do,” Gerry says, thinking of the years he spent trying to please Mary. The unrelenting cruelty he endured due to his failures. The need he felt to do what she wanted, the smallest of hopes that maybe this time it would be enough, maybe this time she would be proud, maybe this time she would love him.

Even dead as she is, Gerry still feels it sometimes. In an off day, he finds a Leitner, and his first thought is, _This might be the one_. He hasn’t had one of those days in a year or two, now. Looking at Michael, tears gathering in his eyes, is like gazing into the past, seeing himself, years younger.

Michael sniffs, “Fuck, Gerry, I’ll do anything, I…” he drops his hands from Gerry’s wrist, fingers catching at his belt, tugging.

Gerry’s eyes widen, realising the implications. “Michael!” he takes the book in one hand and grabs Michael’s with the other. “I’m not going to ask you to do that.”

Michael wraps his fists in Gerry’s collar, shaking him roughly. “I’m tired of fighting. But I will if I have to.” His voice is ragged and desperate, eyes wide and shining.

He shouldn’t. He shouldn’t. He can’t. He can’t give the book to Michael. Without even a fight? How pathetic could he get? How could he have allowed himself to get so soft? God, what’s wrong with him?

And it’s just one life. Anyway, who’s to say Michael’s life is in danger? Sure, Phillip might be an abusive asshole, but there’s no way he could actually kill Michael, right? And the amount of lives lost if they sell this book is untold. Still, Gerry looks at the cuts and bruises on Michael’s face, thinks about how they got there, how he probably didn’t even fight back. He knows he never did.

Gerry swallows, “Okay.”

Michael’s face softens, “Really?”

Gerry shakes his head and clenches his jaw, “Don’t make me change my mind.”

Michael’s hands loosen, drifting down to where Gerry clutches the book. They are warm and soft as he takes the book from Gerry. He watches the book slip from his fingers and into Michael’s, before looking up to meet his eyes.

He doesn’t look triumphant. He doesn’t look like he’s won. He doesn’t look like he just tricked Gerry into giving up the book. He just looks tired. Michael takes the book in one hand, blinking tears from his watery grey eyes, and reaches up to Gerry’s face with the other. Gerry stays put, simply observing as Michael leans forward to press a hard kiss to his lips.

For a long moment neither of them closes their eyes. Gerry watches, heart twisting as Michael finally squeezes his eyes shut, and twin streams of tears slip down his cheeks. Gerry closes his eyes and kisses back, tasting salt on his skin, just as Michael moves away. He doesn’t open them until he hears Michael leave.

A scream splits through the air, ragged and distant. Other interested parties must have finally arrived. Gerry can’t bring himself to care, too full up with emotion to really think on the fates of the men and women two levels below.

He listens to the din and waits, sinking down against the bookshelf to sit on the floor. What the fuck is he going to tell Gertrude this time?

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey y’all. I know this last episode has thrown some doubt on the age and timelines of our boys so I’d just like to clear a few things up.  
> There are discrepancies in the timeline. Some canon info implies that Michael worked with Eric Delano in the 90’s. Other canon info states that Michael was hired in 2003 to replace Fiona Law when she died, and that Michael and Gerry were the same age.  
> For the purposes of this ship, which I am very attached to, and my fics, everything I write is operating under the assumption that they are roughly the same age (in line with the canon info that Michael was hired between 2003-2007 at a young age).  
> I know the wonky timeline makes some people uncomfortable and I totally understand if you aren’t going to be interacting with the ship or my works any longer, no hard feelings, and I thank you for your reading and commenting thus far.  
> Those of you who are sticking around, thanks so much, and please feel free to drop a few kind words in the comments or over on my tumblr, because the hostility coming from a few (ex) gerrymichael shippers really has me down (had to watch Kid Gorgeous and a compilation of Bill Hader laughing and eat a whole block of chocolate to calm down). Love y’all, stay safe. <3


	8. BOOK 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the game ends

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You made it!!! The last chapter! Thanks again for all the lovely comments and kudos. 
> 
> So here it is. Enjoy :)

**SEATTLE, Washington, United States of America**

Gerry’s phone rings the minute he sets foot on American soil. It’s far too cold this far up on the west coast for Gerry’s tastes. The air is damp and chill, even within the airport, and he buries his hands further into his hoodie pocket. He almost doesn’t want to answer it. But Gertrude would’ve texted if it wasn’t urgent.

“Gertrude,” he grunts into his phone, trudging to baggage claim.

“Gerard. There’s been a development. New information.”

“So spit it out, you old bag,” he grumbles.

She huffs, non-plussed, “We’ve received details about the book, unlike every other time. And- well, Gerard, it’s quite a lot more serious than the others. You must retrieve it this time.”

The archivist had been particularly shocked when Gerry had come back to the Archives without a single scratch or bruise on him after the Hagen Manor ball. Gerry had hardly needed to explain what had happened; Gertrude already knew.

“Gertrude…” he sighs, “You know I will. Last time was just… I don’t know. He was… Gertrude, we’re the same.”

“You aren’t the same, Gerard, he _sells_ Leitners, I thought we went through thi-.”

“I know! I know that, it’s not what I’m talking about. You knew- you knew Mary, you knew what she was like, and you know how she treated me. What I did to please her. You know, don’t you?”

A moment of silence. “I am aware of how she treated you, Gerard. Make no mistake. What are you trying to say?”

“Michael and Phillip. It’s the same. The same as me and Mary.”

She sighs, “I understand that, Gerard. I do. But it isn’t something we should be worrying about. I understand that you’ve developed a fondness for the boy, lord knows how, all you’ve done is fight, but this one is important. The body count is… untenable.”

Gerry chews on his lip and spots his bag rolling around the corner. “Whatever, just tell me about this book.”

“Right. This Leitner is a copy of _The Most Dangerous Game_ by Richard Connell, an inscription from an unknown person on the inside cover, handwritten. Allegedly it reads ‘May this book grant you whatever you may need.’ Word is that it could possess the ability to broadcast its will, and to grant wishes.”

Gerry snorts, “Fat chance.”

“Quite; that was my first assumption as well. However it isn’t an unfounded claim; It’s just that it favours which ever method of wish-granting with the highest body count. One man who claimed to have owned the book in 2004 wished for a promotion at his accounting firm. He _was_ promoted, but only after all his seniors and competition died in rather… upsetting ways.”

“Right,” Gerry says, hailing a taxi, “sounds like Slaughter to me.”

“Indeed.”

“Gertrude, if I’m near the book, is it going to like, call to me, or something?” Gerry says, cramming the phone between his ear and shoulder, hauling his suitcase into the trunk of the taxi.

“That isn’t certain, I’m afraid. The information we’ve attained on the book from related statements is conflicting. Some of them say they read the description before feeling compelled to make a wish, others say being around the book was enough.”

“Alright… shit. I don’t love not knowing which it is, but whatever. Is there anything else?”

“No, that’s about all we’ve gathered. If anything else comes up, I’ll text instead of call.”

“Okay. Thanks, Gertrude,” He takes the phone from his ear, about to hang up.

“Gerry?” She says.

“… Yeah?” Gerry asks. It isn’t often that she uses his nickname.

“You must put your feelings aside for this one. You just _must_.”

He nods once, though she can’t see him. “I will, Gertrude.”

“You can do this, Gerard.” Gerry doesn’t answer, and she hangs up.

He sighs, tracking the street signs and pedestrians as they flit by, steeling himself for the night to come.

*

Michael is crouching in front of a locked safe in a corner office of a large corporate building. The room is full of crystal trophies and sharp awards in clear display cases. Three of four walls are made entirely of glass; there’s hardly a thing in here that couldn’t be shattered or used as a weapon. Michael brought a few knives tonight. He might not even have to use them.

The location is reminiscent of both Barcelona and Hobart, and Michael’s been nervous for nightfall since he stepped foot in Washington. Of course, he knows what he’s doing, getting in and out, no one knowing. That isn’t what he’s anxious about.

Michael had been having a pretty damn fine night at that ball. Dancing with Gerry, kissing Gerry… touching Gerry. What he wouldn’t give to have stayed in that fantasy world and not have been interrupted by a voyeuristic eye-book. But he had, and he’d retrieved the Leitner via the lowest means possible. _Begging_. God, it’s humiliating. He hadn’t been thinking of the consequences at the time, but if he had, he doesn’t think he would’ve guessed it included a whopping dose of that all-to-familiar self-loathing.

Now he doesn’t know where he stands. Sure, Gerry had given him the book but what if he regrets it now? What if he’s turned it over and over in his mind just as much as Michael? Kicking himself for falling for Michael’s tricks. Of course it hadn’t been a trick, but how could Gerry know that?

Despite all of it, Gerry probably being royally pissed, out for blood, etc., Michael is hoping that Gerry shows up. It’s contradictory to his need to get the book and get out with no fuss, ending this game once and for all so that he can go back to his boring English existence. But he wants to see Gerry again, one last time.

He can’t deny it: Michael likes Gerry. He’s buried it for long enough that he can’t actually pin-point when exactly he stopped hating the dark-haired man, but now… he likes Gerry. Gerard Keay, a man out to kill him, to take the book for himself and feed the knowledge of its destruction to the Ceaseless Watcher. That’s what Michael had believed. 

Gerry Delano is none of those things. He might sell the books, but he isn’t evil. He’s a hot goth with a bad dye job who laughs at Michael’s dumb jokes. Someone who Michael _likes_. Someone who he doesn’t want to hurt any longer.

Phillip lied to him. Michael must come to terms with that, even if he keeps telling himself that he must have had a valid reason to do it. It is difficult, though, with the memory of Phillip’s face when he’d delivered that sixth book to him still fresh in his mind. They had watched it burn on the back porch until their eyes stung and Phillip had put his hand on Michael’s shoulder and said, ‘I’m proud of you, son.’ God but Michael had waited to hear that for so long. He had worked so hard. Then Phillip had said, ‘Don’t disappoint me by losing this last one, you hear me, boy?’

Michael had nodded. He’s going to get this last one. He has to. If he has to ki-… If he has to do what’s necessary, he will. He pushes the thought of Gerry’s laugh, his slow smile, out of his mind. He takes the memory of his sturdy fingers curling into his hair, the pressure of his lips and thighs, trashes them. He doesn’t need them. He can’t think about them, even if he might want to.

Because this book is the worst he’s faced yet, and it has to be destroyed at all costs. The mortality rate of the others had been vague, words like ‘hundreds’ and ‘could be thousands;’ meaningless. This one has a number. 2385. Two thousand, three hundred, and eighty-five lives lost to this thing. If Michael has to kill Gerry… that’s two lives for the cost of more than two thousand. Michael shakes his head free of the notion; he’ll cross that bridge when he comes to it.

Finally, Michael cracks the safe, and the heavy metal door swings open with a promising squeal. Inside is a few journals, a couple of ring boxes. On top of all that, haphazard, sits a book. It’s a slim paperback, the edges of the cover peeling, curling against itself. Michael feels a little strange when he sees it, like he’d known he would.

He knows the book has abilities to compel. He isn’t stupid enough to look inside of it, it’s just that… as he picks it up and feels the inconsequential weight of it, he’s overcome with the absurdity of it all. He might die over this thing. Not even a finger’s width, no larger than Michael’s palm, made of nothing but paper and ink, and Michael’s life is in danger because of it. It’s ridiculous.

There’s a sound behind him. He can’t tell what the sound is, perhaps a scuffing of boots, rustling of a shirt, blink of an eye. He can’t tell but he knows who it is.

“Gerry.” He’s proud of how steady his voice is.

“Michael,” the man returns. His voice is iron wrought. Michael takes a deep breath and stands, book in hand. He turns around slow, and Gerry is there.

He looks the same as ever. Michael doesn’t know if he was expecting anything different. Gerry approaches him, walking toward the desk Michael is standing behind, one deliberate step after another. His face is meticulously impassive, and there’s nothing in his hands. For all intents and purposes, he is not hostile. Yet.

Michael watches him cautiously, and Gerry rounds the desk. There’s nothing between them now. Michael takes a step back and Gerry takes a step forward. Michael is calm, it’s strange- if there were ever a time for panic, it’s now. He doesn’t think Gerry would end it like this. He fights dirty, sure, and Michael can admit now that he has sunk just as low, but Michael feels quite sure that he wouldn’t end it all with a blindside. 

Michael’s back hits a wall, Leitner still in hand. Gerry is in front of him. He reaches up, just like he had at Hagen Manor, but this time there’s no chair to push him into. Gerry lays his hands flat and inescapable against Michael’s chest, taking another step forward, coming impossibly close. Michael is pinned and Gerry’s face remains neutral. 

Neither of them speaks for a long moment. What could either of them possibly say?

Gerry presses on Michael’s chest, book sandwiched between them. “I think about you a lot, Michael,” he says, voice quiet. Soft, almost.

Michael inhales. He isn’t shaking yet. “I could say the same about you.”

For a second Gerry looks sad. It almost hurts to look at, the way his brows pinch, and his black lips screw into a tight knot. His eyes are dark, and Michael can see the two of them mirrored in the planes of glass between them and the icy air of Seattle. It’s night, and he can’t see the rain. It’s almost as if this sharp office is the only place that exists.

“I… don’t want to hurt you,” Gerry says, not meeting his eyes, scratching his chipped nails over the fabric of Michael’s shirt. “I never wanted to hurt anyone.”

Michael thinks of the punches thrown and caught. The bodies bruised and the noses bleeding. He thinks of the pain that was those first five weeks of book-hunting and thinks about how it was the best time of his life. “But you did.”

Gerry looks up. “And so did you.”

“And I will again. For this book if necessary. Gerry, if you’d just let me-.”

“Not this time, Michael,” Gerry interrupts. His voice is firm, yet subdued. “I can’t play nice anymore.” 

Michael exhales. It’s the only calm reaction he can muster in the face of the worst-case scenario. “Alright then.”

Gerry nods once, decisive, and Michael can see the muscles in his jaw jumping as he clenches his teeth and steps away. Michael frowns, instantly alert, but all Gerry does is stick out a hand. “May the best man win.”

Michael nods along, taking the book in one hand and clasping Gerry’s with the other. Now he’s shaking. Gerry backs up, keeping his eyes locked firm on the book until Michael places it on the desk.

They stand facing each other, neither quite knowing where to start.

“Fuck it,” Michael exclaims, rushing forward. Gerry braces for a tackle, but Michael pulls back at the last moment, rearing his leg up for a kick to Gerry’s chest. It lands with a solid thud, and the dark-haired man staggers back, stumbling onto his ass. Michael doesn’t relent, darting forward to stomp on Gerry’s knee.

He shouts a curse, and Michael plucks a knife from his belt. It isn’t large, but it’ll get the job done. Gerry lashes out with his uninjured leg, catching Michael in the side of the knee. It buckles, and he drops the knife reflexively. It thunks to the floor and skitters away. He tracks it for a moment, thinking of retrieving it, but it spins under the desk.

Gerry has rolled back to standing, lining up for a tackle of his own. Michael grabs an object off the desk and flings it at him. It’s a cup holder and it bounces off harmlessly, pens and pencils cascading to the floor. Michael lifts up a photo-frame, much heavier, and throws. It shatters on Gerry’s head and slows him for a sliver of a moment, but it isn’t enough.

He slams into Michael, cramming his lower back into the desk. Michael shouts at the impact and punches Gerry square in the face, and finally, after months uninjured, Gerry’s nose is spouting blood once again. He staggers back, and Michael swipes something else from the desk, a keyboard, and smashes it over Gerry’s head. 

He growls as the plastic cracks against his skull, and hauls Michael forward by the front of his shirt. Michael aims another punch at him, but it misses by a country mile as Gerry drives a fist into Michael’s chin, snapping his head back with a painful crack. Michael falls against the desk again, and Gerry uses the opportunity to punch him in the gut. 

Michael gags, feeling bile rise in his throat. He forces it down with sheer will and seizes Gerry with both hands around the throat, digging his thumbs in and squeezing _hard_. The veins in his neck begin to bulge and his face starts to turn an unsightly red as he claws at Michael’s hands for a moment.

Noticing that does nothing, he swings for Michael’s face and falls short. Michael grunts as he squeezes tighter, and Gerry makes a strange gurgling noise. Gerry redirects his efforts, wrapping his hands around Michael’s elbows and throwing a leg up into his crotch. Pain rockets through Michael, fizzling down his veins, melting his legs, loosening his grip. Before he can even register what’s happened, he’s on the floor.

Michael tries in vain to struggle up to sitting, but now that he’s on the ground, he resigns himself to his fate. As expected, Gerry sits on him, and Michael fears he would still find it sexy if it weren’t for the manic look in the other man’s eye.

Michael thrashes, doing his damnedest to dislodge the heavy goth. Gerry is not phased as he takes a fistful of Michael’s hair in both hands, jerking him up before slamming his head back down into the floor.

It hurts, more than it had in Barcelona, he’s sure. Of course Gerry was going easy on him back then. The blow knocks his brain around, and he’s having trouble thinking of what to do next. Gerry repeats the action. Michael is getting dizzy.

Gaze unfocused, he reaches down to his belt, fumbling around for a knife. He plucks one out and swings it up just as Gerry is wrenching his head up a third time. Gerry cries out as the blade cuts through the leather of his jacket and slices into the meat of his arm, blood spraying across Michael’s face.

Michael blinks in surprise; he hadn’t actually intended to cut anything just then. Through the daze of his throbbing head he hopes that he hasn’t hit an artery. Gerry grunts and grabs Michael’s wrist, untangling his fingers from Michael’s hair and working the knife out of his grasp. Michael takes the moment of distraction as an opportunity to fling a fist into Gerry’s face.

Gerry just gets the dagger free when the blow connects, dropping it as he’s thrown to the side. Michael scrambles for the knife and swipes at Gerry with it. The swing misses: Gerry has already rolled out of the way. Michael just gets his unsteady feet under him before Gerry ploughs into him, ramming him through a glass display case which shatters easily under their combined weight. 

Something between Michael’s shoulder and the wall behind shreds through his shirt. Either a shard of glass or a crystalline award, it cuts through his skin, red bleeding quick and hot across his white shirt. Gerry doesn’t relent when he sees it, instead balling his fists in the bloody fabric and throwing his head forward into Michael’s nose. Michael lets it rocket toward him, too dazed to combat the nauseating crunch of his nose.

For the first time, he feels blood spill from his nostrils, running warm and unpleasant over his lips. He guesses karma has always been on its way. It does not feel good to be on the receiving end.

Gerry flicks a dagger out of his belt and Michael’s hand flies out to wrap around his wrist, desperate to keep anything else from drawing blood. His injured shoulder screams murder as he works to keep the blade at bay. He brings up a leg, and kicks Gerry in the belly.

It isn’t his strongest kick, but it’s enough to get Gerry far enough away from him that Michael can follow with a swift punch to the goth’s face. His head jerks back, and he crashes to the floor. Not wasting a second, Michael straddles the fallen man, dropping his entire weight down on his stomach and earning a pained groan.

Gerry hits him in the face with his left hand, followed close by his right and Michael fails to block both. Gerry fists his hands in Michael’s shirt once more and pulls him down. Thinking Gerry is going to retaliate for that time Michael bit him on the nose in Italy, he braces his hands against the other man’s chest and resists.

The effort yields nothing, and Michael is yanked downwards so that Gerry can mash their lips together. What? Now isn’t the time for that! Michael gasps against his bloodied lips and kisses back anyway. Their faces are slick with blood and sweat and they’re both out of breath, and the kiss sucks, from an objective point of view, but Michael will remember it for the rest of his life (however short it may be).

Gerry pants something against his mouth, and Michael thinks it sounds an awful lot like ‘Sorry.’ He’s about to ask when pain, sharp and grating, pulses from his leg, so intensely excruciating that Michael _screams_.

“Fuck!” He cries, voice cracking, looking down to see the hilt of a knife sticking out of his thigh. He rips it out, and somehow that almost hurts _more_ , and without thinking, he swings it round overhead, driving it down, two-handed toward Gerry’s throat.

Gerry’s arms come up just in time to clamp around Michael’s forearms and push back against him. Gerry has the strength advantage, but Michael has leverage and gravity on his side as the blade inches downward, slow, agonising.

Gerry struggles beneath him, breathing fast and shallow, grunting as he resists the knife hovering above the rabbit-quick pulse of his jugular. Michael’s gasps come ragged and grating. Half of his mind is screaming at him; this man intends to sell the books! He’s dirty and bad! He’s selfish and wants to watch the world burn! Its voice sounds a lot like Phillip.

Another part is pleading. This is a person. This is a man who’s lived and laughed and probably loved. Michael, you can’t do this, you can’t. He’s human, just like you, he bleeds red and cries and shouts and swears and you. _Can’t. Do. This._

Blood drips from the knife onto Gerry’s throat, pooling thick in the dip of it. He notices belatedly that there’s also something spilling onto Gerry’s face, clear and clean, cutting through the grime and skating down to his ears. Michael is crying.

He gasps as he realises, and grits out, “Gerry, _please_ , I don’t want to do this.”

The knife slips further, and the tip scrapes Gerry’s skin. Still Michael pushes. Still Gerry resists, eyes wide with fear.

Michael feels something inside of him ripping, a glaring pain in his chest, aching, throbbing. His soul is tearing, edges flaying apart the harder he pushes toward this version of the end. He can’t do this. He has to. He _can’t_ do this. He _has_ to.

There must be another way, this can’t be the only path.

Michael sobs, voice torn and broken as he continues to push, hardly seeing the knife draw its first bead of blood through the tears but opening his mouth to speak through it. “Gerry. Gerry, please, I can’t let you sell the book. It’s lying, it’s lying, please, listen, fuck! It doesn’t grant wishes, whatever you’ve heard, it isn’t true! I swear to god, it has to be destroyed!”

Suddenly, there’s no resistance beneath the straining of his arms, and the knife plunges down. Michael blinks, surprised and horrified. What has he done? God, fuck, what has he done? He blinks again, and his vision clears. He sees the knife, buried in the floor, Gerry’s neck millimetres beside it, unharmed.

“What did you say?” Gerry says, dark eyes wide.

Michael sniffs, hysterical. He has to try again. This has to end. He wedges the knife out of the floor and brings it up again. “It’s lying! I have to destroy it and I won’t let you stop me!”

“Michael, stop! _Wait!_ ” Gerry roars, planting both hands on Michael’s chest and shoving hard before the blade can get anywhere near close to Gerry’s throat again.

Michael is bucked off, and he drops the blade as his aching shoulder drives into the ground. He’s still crying. He can’t think straight. Gerry won’t see to reason; he has to kill him! Why is Gerry pleading with him now? Why is he making everything harder? Why can’t they just kill each other and get it over with? Why can’t this be over? Where is the knife!?

Michael can’t find it through the tears, and there are none left in his belt. Gerry is sitting there. Why is he just sitting there? Michael is so confused and dizzy he stops searching for the knife and just… stops, tears streaming down his face as he surveys Gerry sitting across from him, still breathless.

“Michael,” Gerry says, slow, deliberate. “What have you been doing with the books you’ve got so far?”

“Destroying them! Burning them! Please, Gerry it’s the only way to keep everyone safe!” Michael blinks hard to dispel the tears. Fuck, he’s so tired. He’s beginning to think he’s a bit concussed, because what he sees is Gerry sitting stock still, eyes wide open, mouth agape. He couldn’t look more shocked if he tried.

Michael wipes at his eyes with the bottom of his bloodied shirt, not caring that he’s leaving himself vulnerable to attack. “What? _What_ , Gerry? Please, I just want this to be over.”

“Michael. Are you telling me that every book, every Leitner, that we’ve been fighting over… the ones that you got? You burnt them?”

“Yes! Gerry this is getting ridiculous,” Michael says, hand inching around behind him for a sharp piece of glass.

“So have I,” Gerry says.

Michael’s brain stops working, searching hand stuttering to a halt. Gerry can’t possibly be saying what it seems like he’s saying. “Wh-what?”

“You burn the books,” Gerry says, gesturing wildly, “I burn the books. We’re on the same side!”

Michael frowns. “You mean. You… came here,” Michael indicates the shattered office, “to burn that book?” he points to the book sitting innocent on the desk.

“Yeah,” Gerry says incredulously. “That’s been my plan literally every time.”

“No, I mean. I do that. You don’t do that. That’s- that’s why we fight,” Michael reasons, head throbbing.

Gerry slumps onto his back and covers his face with a hysterical laugh. “We’ve been fighting for nothing!” his yell is muffled by his hands.

Michael can’t quite wrap his mind around it. “We… don’t have to fight?” Had Phillip lied to him? Again? Was there really not a damn thing that Phillip was truthful about? He lied about everything. _Everything. Fuck._

Gerry levers himself back into a sitting position, wincing as his wounds catch up with him, and nods. “We don’t have to fight.”

Feeling like he’s just had the rug ripped out from under him, Michael says, “Well… let’s go burn this fucking book, then.”

Gerry smiles with a disbelieving laugh. He groans his way to his feet, swiping the book off the desk, and staggers over to Michael, holding out a hand. Michael regards it for a moment, before slapping his own hand into it and allowing himself to be heaved up. He gasps as he puts weight on his left leg, and Gerry stretches his hand over his shoulders, winding his injured arm around Michael’s waist, taking the weight off Michael’s thigh.

They make their slow shuffling way down to the bottom floor, hobbling out onto the street and finding the nearest alley. Michael’s pant leg and shoulder are soaked in blood, and his head still pounds as he leans against the grimy wall of a building, observing as Gerry empties some lighter fluid onto the book and strikes a match after finding a patch of ground that isn’t a puddle.

They stand side by side to watch as the book burns. The pages curl and blacken, shrivelling against themselves and crumbling into grey ash. Michael leans instinctively into the other man’s warmth as the fire crackles. Gerry puts an arm back around him, and Michael tries not to smile too wide. When the book is down to an ember, Michael turns away.

Gerry’s hand tightens in the back of his shirt and he says, “Woah.”

Michael looks back, and at first sees nothing. Then he notices that pieces of ash and charred page are breaking away from the mound, skittering away on eight small legs, disappearing into the surrounding dumpsters and bags of garbage. They stare as the book dissolves into spiders until nothing is left of it. Nothing left at all.

“What the fuck?” Gerry says. “I thought this was the Slaughter?”

“So did I,” Michael mumbles. “Maybe… maybe it was the Web the whole time. Pulling the strings of this whole game.”

Gerry turns to look at him, skin and hair shining gold in the light of a streetlamp. His face is a mess of blood and smudged make up, but he’s beautiful, and Michael nearly forgets what he’s talking about when he says, “That’s not a bad theory. The Web and the Eye have worked together before.” Gerry lifts his free arm to scratch at the drying blood on his cheek, and winces as the cut in his bicep disagrees with the movement.

“I’m sorry about your arm,” Michael says.

Gerry shakes his head, “I’m sorry about your leg.”

Michael giggles, a little hysterical. “This must be the misunderstanding of the century, huh? I can’t believe this; we’ve really been on the same side since day one.” Michael laughs louder, and Gerry joins him, more subdued, until Michael dissolves into a coughing fit, blood from his nose dripping thick and cloying at the back of his throat.

“Tell me about it,” Gerry says, looking at him closely. He extends a hand, the one that isn’t holding Michael up. “So. Friends?”

Michael gazes at the hand for a moment, mind racing, running through everything that’s happened in the last few months to bring him to this moment: staring at a hand-shaped offering from his biggest enemy in a rain-soaked alley in Seattle after nearly killing each other and burning one of the most dangerous books in human history.

He bats the hand away, “I’ll do you one better.” And he leans in close, one hand clutching Gerry’s arm, the other sliding up to hold his jaw as he kisses Gerry firmly. Gerry stumbles against his full weight, free arm clutching at the back of Michael’s shirt. The kiss is sweet, a bit sad, and a lot heated. It’s raining in earnest now, and Michael quickly gets tangled as the water pastes Gerry’s hair to his fingers.

Gerry laughs against his mouth, and tugs at his bottom lip with his teeth. Michael groans and dives deeper, tongue probing against Gerry’s, sucking greedily. Gerry hums and pushes at his sternum until Michael wobbles back on his good leg.

“Sorry,” Michael says after pulling away with a wet smack. “I’m a bit concussed. Was that too much?”

“No, it was perfect, just. You’re concussed, and also bleeding on me, so I think we should go get you patched up, instead of continue to make out in the rain,” Gerry reasons, fitting Michael’s arm back around his shoulders and moving to the mouth of the alley.

“But it’s so romantic,” Michael mumbles, allowing Gerry to drag him around. “And I really like you, Gerry Delano.”

Gerry laughs. “You’re pretty alright, too, Michael Shelley. Let’s get you fixed up.”

*

They get back to Gerry’s hotel room absolutely soaked with rain, the blood on their skin and clothes running off in rivulets with the water. They laugh and stumble as they go, falling against the door as it closes behind them, Gerry plastered to Michael’s front. Michael, delirious with adrenaline, blood loss, and a concussion, stoops down to kiss Gerry.

Gerry indulges him for a long moment, unable to step away, not after what he knows now. This is allowed. This is good. They are on the same side. He has to move away eventually though, because Michael is still bleeding steadily from where Gerry had literally stabbed him in the leg.

“Gotta fix your arm,” Michael murmurs when Gerry stops kissing him.

“Leg first,” Gerry protests. “My arm isn’t too bad.”

“Arm!” Michael insists, plucking at Gerry’s jacket.

“No, Michael. I stabbed you! I’m going to fix it!” Gerry says, manoeuvring Michael over to the bed and pushing him down on his side so Gerry can get to his leg. He fishes through his bag as Michael makes himself comfortable and comes up with his first aid kit. He hasn’t used it in a while- he hasn’t been stabbed in at least a few months.

Gerry sits back down on the bed and cuts away at Michael’s pants. The wound isn’t long or wide, but it runs deep. The knife wasn’t long enough to nick anything important, and Gerry sighs in relief to find that the bleeding is slowing. He dabs at it gently with a cloth and Michael protests with a shiver.

“What’s the verdict, doc?” Michael mumbles.

Gerry gazes at him, face half mashed into the sheets, wet hair soaking a damp patch into them. His cheeks are flushed, and his eyes are unfocused. The goth smiles fondly as he stitches up the wound. “You’ll live, don’t worry. Your pants are done for, though.”

Michael hums, eyes fluttering closed.

“Don’t fall asleep, Michael. You aren’t supposed to fall asleep when you have a concussion.”

“Oh, and who’s fault is that, Gerry?”

Gerry chuckles, but the sound isn’t quite as bright as it had been when they stumbled their way here. “We both did things we didn’t want to.”

“I know,” he says, tone mild against the damp sheets. “I really am sorry. About everything. I didn’t… I couldn’t see the truth. I just wanted to do the right thing, Phillip said… he said-.”

“Michael, you don’t have to explain anything to me. I understand,” Gerry says softly, tying off the last thread. He takes Michael by his good arm and drags him to sitting. “Can you take your shirt off?”

Michael quirks a sloppy eyebrow, “Oh, back into it, are we?”

Gerry snorts, “No, you idiot, the cut on your shoulder.”

Michael pouts, “Fine.” He takes a hold of the bottom of his shirt and lifts, only getting half way before wincing and letting his hands fall back down into his lap. “Sorry, I- it hurts.”

Gerry hums, and cuts his shirt from sleeve to collar, peeling the damp material away to inspect the cut. It’s longer than the other one, but not near as deep. It won’t need stitches. Gerry wipes at it, patting it dry before fixing a bandage over it.

“Let me get your arm, now,” Michael says, batting Gerry’s hands away.

“Michael, you’re pretty out of it, do you th-.”

“Please, Gerry, I want to,” Michael says, eyes pleading.

Gerry sighs, “Fine, don’t hurt yourself.” He tugs his jacket off.

Michael gingerly takes Gerry’s arm by the wrist and lifts it so that his hand is resting on his own shoulder, elbow bent up to reveal the ragged line through his triceps. Michael’s fingers are soft and sure despite the way they tremble as he begins to stitch the edges of the cut together.

“Hey,” Michael says.

“What?”

“I won,” he says, the corner of his lips twitching up, cheeks dimpling.

Gerry scoffs and smiles along, “What do you mean?”

“I got more Leitners than you,” he continues, smirking properly.

“Fuck off,” Gerry says. He’s still grinning like an idiot. “I was going easy on you.”

“I was going easy on _you_ ,” Michael counters, tying off the last stitch and wrapping a crisp white bandage around his arm. “All done.” He drops his hands back down to his lap and begins to fidget, unsure quite what to do in the ensuing silence.

Gerry reaches towards Michael’s face with his good arm, eyes hesitant. He cups Michael’s cheek and leans his forehead against the other man’s, thumb swiping over his clammy skin. Gerry’s breathe is warm where it wafts over the damp of his chin.

“Thank god I didn’t kill you,” Gerry says, reverent.

Michael hums, “I seem to recall I was winning.”

“You know what I mean,” Gerry smiles.

Michael nods, fidgeting hands taking a hold in Gerry’s shirt. “I do.” Michael tips his head to the side, nose grazing Gerry’s cheek, and fits their lips together. Gerry closes his eyes, kissing back, tucking Michael’s hair out of his face where it’s beginning to dry and curl.

He pulls back after a moment, eyes still shut tight and says, “Michael.”

“Gerry?”

“Michael,” he whispers, hauling him into another kiss. Michael frowns, but melts into it anyway.

*

Gerry wakes up, and for a moment he’s almost sure that he’s dead and in hell, because he is just so fucking _sore_. He groans and rolls over, bumping into a warm mound beside him. Michael, bundled in the sheets, hair rumpled with sleep and highlighted white by the soft grey light of mid-morning Seattle beyond the window.

Michael is still asleep, snoring lightly with his face squished into a pillow, bruising beginning to colour his pale skin. Gerry feels a terrible surge of guilt for the events of yesterday. This can’t be a healthy start to a relationship; beating each other black and blue before stumbling back to his hotel room to patch each other up. There’s probably something wrong with that, morally speaking. But if Michael’s beside him now, sore muscles be damned, this must be heaven.

Gerry lays there for a while, content to simply witness Michael breathing easy for a bit. He’s beautiful; soft lips open and drooling on the pillow, curly hair tumbling across his freckle-specked shoulders. Gerry takes a moment to marvel at the idea that he ever could have hurt him. 

And it was all for nothing. Every book, every Leitner that Gerry had set out to destroy over the past few months. He had to fight tooth and nail to get his hands on each and every one, just so he could burn it. And he’d failed spectacularly a number of times. He’d endured cracked ribs and broken noses and it didn’t matter _at all_. The books he’d lost: burnt to ash anyway.

Now a beautiful man lies in his bed, sleeping off a nasty stab wound inflicted by yours truly. Things _could_ have worked out better, Gerry won’t claim otherwise. But this is as close to the best-case scenario that Gerry is willing to hope for.

But what will happen now? What can happen now? They’re on the same side, they both seek to destroy Leitners. Phillip will still hate Gerry, though. Explaining things won’t help that, not to a man so set in his ways. And Michael will go back to him.

Gerry knows what it’s like to serve someone like that. If you fail, you have to make it up to them. If you succeed you have to maintain that streak, just to keep them proud. It’s inescapable. But… Gerry never had a reason to escape. There was never any other path he could walk down besides hers. Maybe…

He shakes his head, there’s no way that he could be enough of an incentive for Michael to leave Phillip. Still, he has to try. If he can save one person from the life he’d endured, he has to _try_.

Michael stirs, yanking Gerry from his thoughts. He blinks, slow, bleary, shifting under the sheets and groaning, no doubt at the stiffness and pain in his body. After a moment, he focuses on Gerry, and a small smile slips onto his face.

“Morning, beautiful. How are you feeling?” Gerry rumbles, shifting a little closer.

“Like I got stabbed,” Michael grins, cheeks colouring a healthy red. A hand emerges from the covers and slides up to Gerry’s neck, towing him forward so Michael can plant a kiss on his lips, slow and tender. Gerry hums into it, fingers spiralling on the skin of Michael’s arms. After a moment, he slips away from Michael’s lips and presses feather light kisses across the mottled bruises on his face, mouth barely skimming him, whispering a sincere ‘sorry’ against his skin after each quiet touch.

Michael pushes on his chest, gentle hands clutching at his shirt. “Gerry, you know I don’t blame you…” 

Gerry nods, “Just let me? Please?”

Michael strokes his face, expression softening, and allows Gerry to continue to pepper him with kisses, travelling down over his body. He brushes the skin beside the bandage on his shoulder with his mouth, mumbling apologies against him all the while, and slips lower to the spidering purple of the bruise on his abdomen where Gerry had gut-punched him. Michael entertains it, humming and running his warm fingers through Gerry’s hair.

Gerry arrives at Michael’s legs, and grazes his lips over where the knife had cut deep, moving around to the inside of his thigh, and pressing a kiss to it. Gerry feels more than hears Michael’s hitching breath, so holds another kiss to his warm skin, a little further up, a little more teeth and tongue. Michael whines low in his throat.

Gerry plants a sweet kiss on the hip and looks up. “I want to. Do you want me to?”

Michael licks his lips, eyes dark with want, and squirms against the pillows before answering with a nod. Gerry kisses his belly, just above the waistband of his boxers, “Can you say it for me?”

Michael’s fingers tighten in his hair, brief and reflexive, and says, “I want you to.”

Gerry smiles against his skin before shuffling lower and flattening the flicker of his tongue against Michael through the boxers. He watches Michael’s pink mouth fall open as he feels his fingers once again tighten against his scalp. Gerry grins and leans back, pulling Michael’s boxers down and out of the way before taking him into his mouth.

Michael gasps and pushes up into the wet heat of it, hissing when his thigh protests. Gerry wraps his arms around the backs of Michael’s thighs and places his hands against his lower belly and hips, holding him down and feeling the smooth muscle jump under his touch. Gerry works him over for a few long minutes, drinking in the blond’s sweet gasping moans and reverent tugging in his hair.

After a moment, Michael whines, and reaches down to dig his fingers into Gerry’s shoulders, luring him up. Gerry sucks off with a pop and Michael gathers him upward into a searing kiss. Gerry welcomes the insistent push of Michael’s tongue and shivers as he runs his hands over Gerry’s sides, raising goose bumps on the skin of his back.

Michael kisses him heatedly for a long, stretching, moment before running his long fingers down to Gerry’s sweatpants, dipping under the waistband and shoving them off of Gerry’s hips. Gerry gasps against Michael’s lips as his hand closes around the both of them, the slick from Gerry’s mouth aiding in the hot slide of it.

Gerry pushes up into Michael’s hand, and Michael keeps kissing him, free hand tucked under his shirt, running up and down Gerry’s spine. Gerry clutches at Michael’s waist and uninjured shoulder, fingers clasping into his skin. Michael twists his wrist, and they both gasp, Gerry breaking away from the kiss to suck at the skin of Michael’s throat.

“Ah! Gerry…” Michael breathes, eyes fluttering closed, eyelashes pale gold in the washed-out morning light.

Gerry continues kissing and nipping down to his collarbone, and after a long few moments, rocking into each other, panting in the same heated space, tugging absently at each other’s hair, Michael comes apart, breathing ragged little gasps and hums into Gerry’s mouth, rhythm of his hips shuddering out of control. Gerry follows soon after, moaning loud into Michael’s shoulder and quivering to a sweaty stop in Michael’s arms.

Michael lifts Gerry’s chin so he can look him in the eyes. Michael’s pupils are wide and satisfied, lashes damp around the edges. Gerry frowns, reaching up to swipe at the smeared tears under his eyes. “You okay?”

Michael nods, pressing a wobbly kiss to the hand and smiling. “Yeah, I just. I’m so sorry, Gerry.” He surges forward to plant delicate kisses on the sides of Gerry’s nose, where the scars from his own teeth stand stark against Gerry’s tan skin.

“Hey, it’s alright,” Gerry says, stripping off his shirt and wiping them both off before tossing it away. “You really thought I sold the books, right? And vice versa. It’s in the past now.”

Michael sniffs, and gathers Gerry down on top of him, encircling him in his arms and burying his face in Gerry’s hair. “I know. My dad told me you were evil and blood thirsty. I believed him. I hated you.”

“And I hated you. But. I never wanted to do… yesterday. You know?” Gerry says, settling in against Michael’s shoulder.

Michael hums, fingers running in circles just above the bandage around Gerry’s arm. “Hey… do you still have my boots? From Barcelona?”

Gerry winces and chuckles. “I never kept them. They were too big for me, so I threw them out the window of the bell tower.”

“Gerry,” Michael whines, “They were _new_.”

“Yeah, and they didn’t fit,” Gerry says, laughing.

Michael laughs along with him and taps him on the cheek. “You know, you may not be evil, but you’re still a fucking dick.”

Gerry grins and snatches the offending hand, placing a soft kiss to his palm. Michael follows the motion with parted lips, and a blush rises on his cheeks.

“Where do we go from here?” Michael whispers.

Gerry sighs. “I really like you, Michael. And we’re on the same side, right? We could be so good together.”

Michael beams as he says this, and Gerry’s heart twists to see something so bright. It fades after a short second. “But my dad… he’ll never see reason. He could watch you burn a Leitner right in front of his eyes and he wouldn’t change his mind. He’s just… like that.”

“Don’t tell him,” Gerry says, looking earnestly into Michael’s cloudy grey eyes. “Fuck it. Don’t go back to him.”

Michael frowns, an incredulous giggle escaping his throat. “What?”

“Michael, I know… what it’s like. Needing someone’s approval so bad, you would die without it. Mary, my mother, she was the same. _I_ was the same.” Gerry says, gripping tight to Michael’s hand.

Michael shakes his head a little. “Phillip hates Mary, hated her. He isn’t like her; he wouldn’t let himself be.”

“I’m not talking about being an evil book collector, Michael. I’m talking about how they treat us. Mary hasn’t been dead for long, I remember what it was like,” Gerry whispers.

Michael blinks against a sudden onslaught of tears in his eyes. “No, Phillip is a good man, he- he… he doesn’t mean it, I’m just not good enough yet. He…”

“Michael,” Gerry says, squeezing his fingers, “He isn’t. He hurts you. That’s bad.”

Michael frowns and shuts his eyes tight, “But you hurt me, too.”

Gerry swallows hard at the implication that he and Phillip are anything alike, knowing that denial and bargaining are important steps in accepting difficult truths. “You know that’s different. Hey, look at me. You know that’s different, don’t you?”

Michael opens his eyes, brows still pinched up with worry, eyes brimming. He nods. “But- but… he’s all I have,” he says, voice shallow and solemn.

“You have me now, right? If you want. We would be so good together. _Should_ be good together. Michael?”

Michael nods again. He blinks and tears slip down his cheeks. Gerry wipes them away and presses a hesitant kiss to his face. Michael sighs, the sound wobbly and uncertain, and slips out from under Gerry, sitting up on the mattress, sheets pooling around his bare waist.

Gerry sits up next to him. Michael doesn’t look at him, instead staring out the window, gaze shiny with still gathering tears. “Michael?”

Michael doesn’t turn to him, but reaches over to take Gerry’s hand, slotting their fingers together and squeezing tight.

“Michael, I know it’s hard. Even I still feel it, that need to earn her love. It’s taken me a long while to realise, no child should need to earn their parents’ love, no matter how old. You deserve more,” Gerry says, squeezing back.

Michael lets out a shaky little sob at his words, and buries his face in his knees, shoulders trembling. Gerry shuffles close, slipping his other arm around Michael’s waist and planting a kiss to his shoulder blade. For a few gut-twisting moments, Gerry listens to Michael’s muffled cries, squeezing his hand periodically, until finally he lifts his head with a shuddery breath.

“Where would I go?” Michael says, voice stuffy, eyes red.

“Go with me. Anywhere. Anywhere you like,” Gerry says, kissing his cheek.

Michael leans his head against Gerry’s and forces out a strained chuckle. “I never would have guessed that you were such a romantic.”

Gerry smiles at him, knowing he’s stalling, willing to give him time. “There’s nothing stopping us, Michael. The game is over. We can go wherever we want.”

Michael frowns a little, lost in thought, contemplating Gerry’s words. “You know… when I- _we_ \- were travelling around the world, Italy, Spain, Vietnam, Australia. I would look at the buildings and the people and the land, and I would be so disappointed that I couldn’t just stay and enjoy it. I always wanted to travel.”

“Yeah?” Gerry says, grinning.

Michael smiles, sniffs. “Yeah.”

Gerry moves forward to slot their lips together in a delicate kiss, savouring the sweet push of them, the warm press of Michael’s hands, the tapping of the rain outside. After a long moment, Michael draws away, eyes clear, and tips his forehead to lean against Gerry’s.

They sigh into the minimal space between them. The game is over.

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm actually really sad to see this one end, I had so much fun with it, and every single person who's read it has helped in the process, seriously. Thanks so much for reading and if you want, hit me up on tumblr @theroswellcrashsite even if you just want to yell at me about something <3  
> (Toying with the idea of some kind of follow up to this, maybe a post-credits scene type thing. Let me know what you think)


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